


goodbye courage, hello sadness

by townpariah



Category: Thor (Movies), Thor (Movies) RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, And What Have You, Blow Jobs, Fingerfucking, Hiddlesworth, Humor, Inspired by Music, Like Smoking Weed, M/M, Rimming, Slight Age Difference, Summer Love, Young People Doing Things
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-11
Updated: 2014-08-11
Packaged: 2018-02-12 14:07:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 4
Words: 30,258
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2112798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/townpariah/pseuds/townpariah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>chris is the hiddlestons' pool boy but that's the least of his problems.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. one: keen on boys

**Author's Note:**

> this is for and inspired by the bunny to my bear [bucky](http://curds-and-wheyface.tumblr.com/) [whose fics you need to read](http://curds-and-wheyface.tumblr.com/tagged/ive-been-writing) right now: i hope you enjoy this, little bunny. you mean a lot to me and thanks for putting up with my crap! also: sorry this sucks, and a late happy birthday *smishes*. ~~pssst i formatted this for you!~~ ♥
> 
> this fic is set in the 90s but i'm pretty sure somewhere along the way is an anachronistic reference i may have missed! speaking of references this fic contains plenty, everything from haruki murakami to kevin smith's clerks. it's also super self-indulgent and like, not to be taken seriously pls lol. i wrote it on a bit of a binge, all in one go. tom is seventeen, chris is twenty one. [here](http://31.media.tumblr.com/a08a012b584ceafb45622a57d2154e0b/tumblr_n9rk8kjudY1s4dnk7o7_1280.jpg) is a reference i used for chris. [here](http://38.media.tumblr.com/30938e0ab08579feba423e03dd70ce48/tumblr_n3oqi0vvvW1rk4kk5o2_1280.jpg) is the one for tom. 
> 
> **further notes** : no one is homophobic in this au (yay!), it's peppered with music and song lyrics, and tom is based on oakley, the character he played in the movie "unrelated". you should check [this 20 minute video on yt](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=N00zWVH-WlA) which collates all his scenes from the film. in short: he's young, he's flirty, and knows he's sexy as hell. if youtube is not your thing you can just take a gander at [these gifs](http://zhora-salome.tumblr.com/tagged/unrelated). some of his outfits/mannerisms in the fic are based on the character's.
> 
> finally, this fic has a soundtrack which you can listen to on [8tracks](http://8tracks.com/savekeating/goodbye-courage-hello-sadness). the download link is available in the comments, but also alternatively [here](http://www.mediafire.com/download/ywk2g5g2rdb6dhf/goodbye_courage,_hello_sadness.zip).
> 
>  **ETA:** [thedreamcrystal](http://thedreamscrystal.tumblr.com) made a gifset inspired by this fic, which you can view right [here](http://thedreamscrystal.tumblr.com/post/94420355287/goodbye-courage-hello-sadness-by-rangerdanger).  
>   
> 
>  

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _all I could think of was this:  
>  he said that he couldn't resist_   
>  **\--keen on boys, the radio dept.**

  
\---

Chris was broke that summer which was how he found himself working for the Hiddlestons, a wealthy couple from out of town who were in desperate need of a pool boy. Not that their Olympic-sized pool needed looking after, hardly anyone ever used it but the couple’s only son Tom, who lounged about in alligator floatables sipping cocktails he was too young to drink.

The Hiddlestons were Londoners and Chris could tell from how they rolled their vowels that they were painfully upper class; their English was flawless and foreign, their words irregularly rhythmed. Tom especially spoke with an affectation that made Chris’ teeth grind. Some days this was easy to ignore though most of the time Chris wanted to spray Tom’s face with a hose.

Today for example: Tom was sunning himself by the poolside wearing nothing but tiny Speedos that clung to his hips like sealskin. He was beautiful, and Chris knew that empirically, the same way he knew that sneezing with yours eyes open was damn near impossible to do: you could only deny the truth for so long before it started giving you grief.

If Tom weren’t so disagreeable, Chris could see the two of them becoming friends. As it was Tom was a brat whose drink constantly needed refilling and he never so much as spoke a word to Chris unless it was to ask him to move to the left because he was blocking the sun.

Like most kids his age, Tom was moody; he seemed bored all the time and incapable of feeling joy, a shame Chris thought, because he really did think Tom was something special: those watery blue eyes, and aristocratic cheekbones – that delicate mouth fixed perpetually in a frown – made frequent appearances in his dreams.

Also a constant in some of Chris’ nighttime fantasies were Tom’s Speedos which today seemed ergonomically designed to be more distracting than usual. With Tom’s right leg pushed up toward his chest, Chris could see the pale inside of his thigh, the sliver of flesh that was neither pockmarked with sunburns nor shimmering with wheat-colored sun crème. It was white like the inside of a fish, stark and unnaturally intimate, hemmed by the faintest shadow of pubic hair. Chris wanted to hose him down.

That kid needed to learn propriety.

Besides periodically getting an eyeful, there weren’t that many hazards on the job. Chris didn’t have a lot to complain about because cleaning the Hiddlestons’ pool paid better than most summer jobs, and he didn’t even need to come there every day. The pool could be maintained at least once a week, granted the peeing was kept to a minimum, but Chris thought he’d hang around for the free food and the view.

The company wasn’t all that great – he’d have better luck making small talk with the hedges – but the gardener and the cook who worked for the Hiddlestons every summer had some excellent stories. Mr and Mrs Hiddleston both came from old money; Mr Hiddleston was a successful litigator while his wife was a socialite of some kind. Every Sunday they played golf. The rest of the week they had affairs, leaving Tom in charge of the household. At the end of each week, Chris had to come to him for his paycheck. The staff deferred to Tom.

The house itself was worth the unnecessary over time: a symmetrical two story mansion set far behind an expansive lawn and a circular gravel drive. The property was on a secluded hilltop, a twenty minute drive from Chris’ neighborhood, fringing suburbia. The marble terrace at the back overlooked a bean-shaped pool. The deck was made of old redwood and brick.

Every other day Chris gave the pool a cursory inspection, collecting leaves and debris from the water with a net. When he was especially early to work, he swam laps, carving through the freezing water till his skin pebbled in goosebumps and Tom appeared on the deck in his Speedos, a towel slung around his neck. He waited patiently for Chris to finish, always with that discernible moue on his face, like Chris was a particularly stubborn piece of gum stuck to the bottom of his shoe. Chris often didn’t make him wait too long, staggering up the steps to relinquish the water lest Tom’s frown ate up his entire face.

Because he was the pool boy, Chris was given free rein of the pool house which reeked of mildew and canvas. The pool house was easily twice the size of his apartment, with comfortable wicker chairs and a granite-topped bar, and wall shelves piled with towels and coffee table books. He spent afternoons napping on the couch which was in direct view of the pool, sometimes watching Tom through the slats between the curtains, wondering how on earth a pretty boy like him could exist.

Tom was the perfect example of how too much money couldn’t be good for you; he was two gin and tonics away from developing a liver problem.

It was during one of these afternoons that Tom paid the pool house a visit, interrupting Chris’ slumber with a well timed knock. Chris hadn’t heard him come in at first because he’d just fallen into a light doze, eyes opened to slits as he straddled the line between wakefulness and dreaming. The light that seeped in through the curtains was a soft buttery yellow, hazy like gauze, which allowed Chris’ mind to comfortably drift.

Chris turned onto his back and stretched, letting his eyes fall lazily to the open door. Tom stood there, poised to knock, his whole body dripping water on the tile. He knocked anyway even though Chris sat up sluggishly at the sight of him, rubbing the heel of his hand into his eye. “I’m sorry, can I help you?”

Tom shrugged. “I don’t know,” he said. “Can you?” He sauntered over to the shelf, which was right across the room, his feet leaving wet prints on the soft carpet. Tom grabbed a towel from the top shelf but rather than leave right away, started drying his hair where he stood. He rubbed the towel all over his body, around his face and under his arms, across his stomach before facing Chris again. Really, Speedos ought to be outlawed; Chris could discern the exact shape of Tom’s cock, could predict the direction it bent when left free to hang.

Chris stood up and regretted the decision immediately; his head ballooned with pain at the movement.

Tom hummed as he continued toweling himself, walking the length of the room before picking up one of the surfing magazines Chris had been reading at the counter. He set it down after a brief once over then squatted – Chris closed his eyes and breathed _–_ on the floor next to the wicker table. When he stood to his feet again, Chris was almost disappointed, but then he saw what Tom held between his two fingers and his body seized up again.

“What’s this?” Tom asked, twirling the joint.

“Oh, that’s not mine,” said Chris, feeling himself start to sweat. “I have no idea how it got there.” It was a lie: Chris had been the one to roll it himself this morning, his technique near perfect after a semester in Amsterdam. He didn’t smoke weed quite as avidly as his roommates, but it did help to keep his worries at bay. Like surfing, weed gave him a zen-like buzz that flushed the problems from his mind: his overdue rent, his lack of a major, the crushing weight of his parents’ disappointment seemed to matter even less after the first few puffs. Also it worked as a kind of a numbing agent that combatted his ever increasing sexual frustration. The more unmoored he was, the less he thought of Tom and what his legs would look like hooked over Chris’ shoulders. 

“The room smells like weed,” Tom said after a moment, making a face. “And feet.”

Chris shrugged. “It’s probably the mildew.”

Tom didn’t look convinced. “Can you tell me where you got this?”

“That isn’t even mine. I don’t smoke,” Chris stammered.

“I didn’t ask whether or not you smoked. I asked you where you got it.” Tom lifted an eyebrow; he looked like a beat away from tapping his foot impatiently and even though he looked like he weighed less than a hundred pounds, Chris felt somehow intimidated.

Chris leapt to snatch the joint from him but before he could make a grab for it, Tom swiped his hand out of the way effectively, dancing a few feet back. He was light on his feet and he was smirking. Chris decided it was worth losing his job and lunged at him, rolling them over across the carpet so he had Tom pinned on the floor with his bulk, his arms braced on either side of Tom’s head.

Tom was breathing hard but otherwise kept his cool, his face flushed in annoyance, and his Speedos still very wet. The joint lay forgotten a few feet away, bent out of shape. They both stared at it a moment before drawing their gazes back to each other: exacting, calculating. Tom’s lips parted, his tongue darting out swiftly to lick his upper lip. He was even prettier up close: his eyelashes sharp spikes fringing his eyes. Chris felt more than saw Tom swallow. He was suddenly overcome with the urge to lick up Tom’s neck, lap the soft lines in the skin lovingly with his tongue.

“How much for a bag?” Tom asked.

“Of weed?” Chris’ shoulders slumped when Tom nodded. He could lie and keep up the pretense of not knowing what Tom was talking about but he was already on top of him and rapidly losing his ability to think. He doubted he could do simple arithmetic at this point. All the blood was rushing south of his body. He was feeling rather lightheaded.

“You’re fifteen years old,” Chris said incredulously, adjusting himself on top of Tom. “I’m not sure you should be buying weed off guys with white boy dreadlocks.”

Tom huffed. “I’m not fifteen years old. I’m _seventeen_.”

“Either way, you’re too young for weed, mate.”

“I had my first drink when I was nine.”

“Jesus,” Chris said. “Really?” It was worse than he thought.

Tom smirked in triumph. “Gin fizz. And I’ve smoked weed before.”

“Let me guess: in the womb?”

“ _In boarding school,”_ Tom returned snottily.“It’s much more expensive there. Contraband often is.”

Chris sighed, not deigning to ask what else was considered contraband. Liquor most likely. Firearms. Pornography. “I’m still not sure buying weed here is a good idea,” he said, finally. “You could get arrested. Or worse: touched in a very bad place. Or that could happen simultaneously, you never know. You’re not from around here, they could overprice you for the weed. More cons than pros so I say we forget this ever happened and abstain from weed for now.”

“Mm,” said Tom thoughtfully. “Well, you can always buy it for me, can’t you?” The glint in his eye made Chris slightly nervous.

“I’d really rather not.”

Tom stared at him. “I’ll accompany you.”

Chris stared at him back.

“So I can procure it myself next time because you’re being such a drama queen about it,” Tom continued, and when Chris said nothing, added: “I still have this week’s paycheck; it will do well for you to remember that.”

Chris glared at him. “We’re not going to spend my hard earned money on weed, mate.”

“ _Please_ , as if you do anything remotely taxing!” Tom barked out a laugh. “I hardly ever see you leave the pool house.”

“That’s because I don’t want to be in the way,” Chris replied angrily. “I only come when summoned!”

As soon as Chris realized what he’d just said, he flushed hard and started stuttering. Tom waved a hand to shut him up. “You can keep your stupid paycheck,” he said. “We’ll be using my money. That way we can purchase more weed.”

“Right,” said Chris. “Because obviously that’s what your body needs: more mind altering substances.”

Tom rolled his eyes “Fuck off; you don’t know even me. And as comfortable as I am on my back right now I would really appreciate it if you get off me, pool boy.”

Chris gritted his teeth, counted to three in his mind, before reluctantly peeling himself off Tom. He had said _pool boy_ with so much disdain it was almost an insult. Chris didn’t offer Tom a hand because he thought Tom didn’t deserve it, not with his poor manners and lousy attitude.

Tom picked up the towel from the floor and flung it across his shoulder, adjusting the droop of his Speedos where it had slid down a bony hip. “Will you be ready tonight? I was hoping to send my friend David some weed by tomorrow.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Chris said, looking up from Tom’s navel where a slight fuzz of hair made a downward descent towards his crotch.

Tom shrugged. The consequences of sending weed through the post seemed self evident enough that Chris didn’t think it was worth exhausting himself explaining. If Tom wanted to land his arse in jail then so be it.

“So do we have a deal or should I go looking for weed myself?”

Chris sighed. They shook on it like gentlemen and Chris was the first to let go, rubbing the back of his neck the way he often did when he got anxious. He had a bad feeling about this, but the sooner he gave voice to the thought, the sooner the reality of the situation would sink in.

Tom turned to leave. “I don’t appreciate being called pool boy,” Chris said, because he possessed a self-defeating tic that dictated he always had to have the last word. “I have a name, you know.”

Tom glanced at him over his shoulder, chin pointed down. His smile looked more like a grimace, curling the edges of his lips like he’d tasted something bad on the roof of his mouth. “I know you have a name,” he said with just the right amount of amusement and disdain that had Chris’ hackles’ rising. “I just think Pool Boy suits you better.”

There was a ghost of a softer smile on his face but Chris couldn’t say for sure when Tom was already turning to leave. Tom closed the door behind him and from the bay windows, Chris watched as he dove straight into the pool, the surface breaking as his sleek body knifed through the water. He swam a few laps before climbing back to the deck to make a dive.

One day, that kid would slip and hit his head. Chris had warned him enough times not to do that.

\---

There was no escaping his deal with Tom. If Chris wanted to get paid by the end of the week, he was going to have to drive him to the weed dealers which would’ve been an easy enough chore if Tom didn’t stick out like a sore thumb. He dressed glaringly like a tourist: in navy espadrilles and soft denim shorts, a striped nautical white and blue shirt that dipped low at the throat where he’d tucked in his sunglasses.

Tom boarded the passenger side of Chris’ jeep, invading the cramped space with his sickeningly sweet cologne. He eyed the mess in the backseat which Chris didn’t have enough time to clean, raising his eyebrow at the wet suit splayed across the leatherette, the assorted beach equipment interspersed with paper bags of fast food.

Chris shrugged back in response and revved up the engine, pulling out the driveway before turning on the music. Tom clipped on his seatbelt and let his elbow rest against the open window, tipping his head back against the headrest. Chris tried not to notice the line of his neck when Tom swallowed. He kept his eyes dutifully ahead.

“So where are we going?” Tom asked after the first verses of Peter Gabriel’s _In Your Eyes_ [[x](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=B3kFPBtc9BE)] washed over them.

“I’d tell you but then I’d have to kill you,” Chris said, rolling his eyes.

“Very funny,” Tom said. “These people we’ll be buying weed from, do you know them?”

“Do you mean personally? Do I look like I spend all my time smoking weed?”

Tom looked at him like he wasn’t sure Chris wanted an answer. “I try not to make a habit out of it,” Chris said, just as they stopped at a red light. “I want a clear head when I surf.”

“Is that what the wetsuit is for then?” Tom gestured to the backseat.

“No, I just like to walk around in it because I think it’s fashionable,” Chris said.

That comment elicited a laugh from Tom who shook his head as he watched the scenery drift by outside. Chris stared at him for a moment, not daring to believe he’d made him laugh. He’d always thought it was impossible to penetrate the thick steel bunker of whatever Tom had that passed for a heart, but maybe it was just the promise of weed that made Tom uncharacteristically agreeable.

Chris tried not to get his hopes up.

They drove through his neighborhood after making a turn round the bend where rows of near-identical two story homes hemmed each side of the road. A kid rode his bicycle on the sidewalk while his little dog yipped behind him in apparent pursuit. A few people were washing their cars in the driveway.

Night was just settling in in suburbia: the afternoon sky was deepening, and the temperature had turned moderately cool. Driving to town shouldn’t have made Chris nervous but he kept glancing in his rearview mirror, expecting a cop car to make an appearance. The initial fear of getting caught had never completely worn off even though Chris had bought weed a few times without being prompted by his friends.

Chris parked his jeep a few blocks away from their main destination: a music store called _Langers_ wedged right between a 24 hour convenience store and a Chinese restaurant that had live crabs and fish swimming in separate tanks outside.

Chris kept his head down and his hood up, hunching his shoulders like he’d seen thugs in movies do, while Tom traipsed casually next to him, taking in the smoke wafting in from back kitchens and the yowling of cats in the night.

It wasn’t a bad neighborhood but there was a reason Chris didn’t make routine visits. He always got the distinct feeling he was being watched from the shadows though by whom he couldn’t tell. His roommates would always make fun of him when it was his turn to buy the weed, calling him out on his cowardice, and it was only pride that kept him from running with his tail between his legs.

Tom, on the other hand, was made of sterner stuff and looked absolutely delighted at seeing how the other half lived, lagging a few paces behind Chris as Chris made his way to the music store. His dealer Ray sat on his usual perch outside, hair a shaggy unkempt mess, backwards baseball cap snug on his skull. He was shuffling playing cards and smoking a cigarette and looked up once Chris was stood right in front of him.

“How’re you doing Ray?” Chris asked. Ray blinked at him, and it took a moment before he dredged up Chris’ name from the fog of his addled stoner’s memory. “Chris,” he smiled crookedly; his teeth were yellow with nicotine stains. “Chris, how are you doing mate?”

“Same old, same old,” Chris said. “Is Job here or—”

“Oh, right, well, I don’t do that anymore Chris. We’ve – I’ve – totally moved on.”

Ray must have sensed his confusion because he began laughing hysterically, slapping his knee and pounding his chest with a fist as he tussled for air. He snorted at the look on Chris’ face and took a mighty drag of his cigarette, shaking his head and exhaling smoke through his nostrils. “I’m just joking, mate. He’s in there. Vinyl section. Who’s your friend?”

“Oh, he’s my cousin,” Chris lied. “From out of town.”

“Well, he looks a little bit young doesn’t he? How old are you, kid? Twelve, thirteen?”

“I’m seventeen,” Tom replied indignantly. Chris elbowed him in the ribs to shut him up. Tom huffed as Chris dragged him inside, letting his arm go once the door had swung shut behind them.

“What kind of name is Job anyway?” Tom hissed but Chris ignored him and went to look for Job. Hardly anyone went to _Langers_ anymore unless they had a taste for obscure records or were looking to buy LPs of undiscovered 70s bands.

Chris wasn’t sure how the store was still in business; the same film of dust blanketed everything undisturbed since 1988 and a copy of The Beastie Boys’ _Paul’s Boutique_ was still displayed on the Newest Releases rack _._

Job was right where Ray said he would be, in the back by the vinyl shelf, massive headphones plugged over his ears. His considerable bulk made him easy to find and as usual he wore his customary brown coat, the inside pockets of which, Chris knew, were loaded with the good stuff.

Chris tapped him on the shoulder, three taps to let Job know he meant business. Job turned to face him, raising an eyebrow before lowering his headphones to his neck. He smiled in recognition then snapped his gum in Chris’ face.

“Are you an Eric Clapton fan Chris?” he asked.

“Not particularly,” Chris laughed.

“Neither am I,” said Job, chewing with an open mouth. “The usual?”

Chris nodded. It was always awkward to make small talk with Job because Chris was never actually sure what he was talking about half the time. Tom looked at him expectantly, watching their whole exchange, crossing his arms once Job handed Chris a _Portishead_ record, his hand on the underside concealing the weed packed tight in a resealable bag.

“One ounce, there you go,” Job said with a smile as Chris slid the bag quickly into the front pocket of his hoodie. Chris looked back to Tom when it was time to make the payment, Job glancing from Chris to Tom and back and forth.

“Do you take credit cards?” Tom asked.

Job stared at him like he was crazy. Chris ended up making the payment himself, a considerable sum for just a measly ounce of weed, his hand shaking as he handed Job the crumbled up bills. Tom promised to pay him back by the end of the week once his stipend came in, and it was only after they’d driven a good distance away from Langers that Chris allowed himself to relax. His hands unclenched from the steering wheel. He glanced at Tom in the passenger seat: his face open and giddy, his eyes wide and luminous as street lights dappled the windshield.

“Can you roll a spliff?” Tom asked.

“You mean like right now?”

Tom rolled his eyes. Of course he meant right now. Chris parked his jeep in a residential area and rooted through the glove compartment for some papers. He didn’t have a bong, he wasn’t all that into smoking weed anyway, but these were leftovers from a semester ago, souvenirs he’d brought home and kept from a trip abroad. He rolled Tom a knee trembler which he thought was rather apt: quick and easy, a veritable classic, all he had to do was stick two joint papers in an acute angle, rolling down the first one before wrapping the second paper to seal the end of the joint.

Tom had a joint between his fingers less than five minutes later, and he looked at Chris with something like newfound respect, his nostrils flaring as Chris leaned closer to light him up with a match.

“You’re a miracle worker,” Tom said, breathing right into Chris’ face.

Chris blushed, shrugging off the compliment, and watched as Tom took a perfunctory hit. He held the smoke in his lungs for a few seconds before releasing his breath in a long exhale. Tom took two longer puffs and waited for the weed to settle, his face flushing deeper, his eyelids slipping closed like he was falling asleep as he sank against his seat like a deflating balloon.

Chris hadn’t expected this kind of eerie calmness to take place immediately; Tom’s edges seemed to have softened a little, and he smiled a lot more.

“We need to go home and watch some movies,” Tom said, handing Chris the joint, offering him a puff. “What’s your favourite movie, Chris?”

Chris thought about it as he took a hit. “Blade Runner,” he said before handing back the joint. Their fingers brushed briefly and Chris blushed again.

\---

They holed themselves up in Tom’s room which Chris thought looked a little different from what he had initially pictured. The carpet and curtains matched the maroon bed covers and on the wall hung modern art pieces, impressionist paintings of empty landscapes and barren spaces that Chris’ niece could’ve easily replicated. But rich people paid a lot of money for this kind of stuff; maybe it was an acquired taste to favor the kitsch.

There were a few personal effects scattered across the room, but otherwise it didn’t feel completely lived in. Half a dozen fantasy paperbacks sat on the otherwise empty shelf above the bed; Tom’s suitcase of clothes was still left unpacked on the floor, open to reveal a tumult of trousers and underwear. He had a stereo, a television, a pile of CDs on the nightstand. A pair of running shoes had been left to dry on the shaggy Oriental rug, upturned and covered in mud.

They set up shop on the carpet, Chris rolling joints as Tom watched him silently, a lighter in his lap for when the real fun began.

Tom didn’t have _Blade Runner_ on VHS _,_ but he did have _The Fifth Element,_ and they watched that with relish in companionable silence, interrupted from time to time by Tom’s running commentary of the movie. He seemed to be a film buff, with plenty to say about form and function. Smoking weed made some people ravenously hungry so Tom sent Chris downstairs to fetch whatever he could forage from the fridge: some leftover crisps, a bowl of pudding, and last night’s meat loaf which Chris reheated in the microwave and ate with his hands, worming his fingers through the soft flesh as he tore off a generous hunk. It was messy and visceral, which would probably explain what happened next.

Smoking weed had another effect on Tom: besides a marked increase in appetite, it made him receptive to Chris’ touching, and by the time the credit score was playing, Tom had crawled halfway across the carpet from his corner to Chris’.

Tom took one last sloppy hit from his mangled spliff, letting the smoke rise off his lips and weave into the air. Chris couldn’t take his eyes off his face, his lips. Tom smoked too well for someone so young. Chris had always watched Tom from afar and it was only then that he had a good look at him.

Tom had a tiny scar on his upper lip, barely visible, and a bruise that was beginning to heal on his left elbow. A smattering of red scrapes lined his right knee from when he’d slipped on the pool deck and Chris had laughed instead of helping him up.

Up close, his face lost some of its sharpness.

Tom stubbed his spliff on the carpet and let Chris climb on top of him without protest, resting between his knees, Chris’ arms braced on either side of him.

Underneath him, breathing hard, Tom looked young, breakable even, his eyes jumpy with nervousness as Chris lowered his body over his. He felt smaller than Chris expected, with slim shoulders and obvious ribs, his neck a long slender curve Chris traced gently with his fingers. He used to roll his eyes in Chris’ presence, never laugh at his jokes, but now Chris could see he was just a kid, despite the fact he smoked with a real flair, limp wrist and all.

Were it not for the weed, Chris knew he wouldn’t have been so lucky, allowed the nominal intimacy of slipping his hand inside Tom’s shirt to feel his way around. So he took the opportunity even though he knew he was going to regret it sooner than later. Tom’s skin was warm all over, not clammy or sweaty like Chris’ hands were. Tom moaned as Chris rubbed his nipples with the pads of his thumbs, mouthing at his chest through the cotton.

Tom giggled, grabbing the back of his head, and when Chris rose up to meet his mouth in a kiss, Tom avoided collision by planting Chris’ face in his neck. Startled, Chris let out a muffled groan but he wasn’t going to pass up what was to him presented so freely. He took a gentle bite of the meat of Tom’s shoulder, careful not to hurt him, leaving a mark that was sure to bruise tomorrow. His teeth left tiny impressions on Tom’s skin and Tom moaned, hips rolling up, his eyes glazed over by something other than the weed they’d just smoked, when Chris started licking over the skin.

“Weed always makes me so horny,” Tom confessed, gasping when Chris hiked up Tom’s shirt all the way up to his collar. It was nothing he hadn’t seen before but it was nice to see them up close: Tom’s nipples stiffening to hard little peaks. He rolled them again between his thumbs and forefingers before fusing his mouth over one hard bud and then the other.

The effect was instantaneous: Tom’s body shuddered underneath him, his back arching. His skin puckered in gooseflesh as he let out a series of stuttered gasps.

Tom wrapped a leg around Chris’ waist and shoved him onto his back, rolling himself on top of him, panting and bright-eyed.

Chris blinked , his gaze swimming before focusing on the sly lines of Tom’s smirk. The sudden weight in his lap stirred his cock’s interest; he thrust up and Tom moaned, rolling his hips and grinding down till Chris met him thrust for thrust.

Chris groaned and glided his hands up Tom’s thighs, clutching his hips to keep the friction steady.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he hissed, digging his fingers into the meat of Tom’s thighs.

“ _Shut up_ ,” Tom snapped. “Shut up and carry me to bed.”

Chris obeyed without question, nearly tripping in his haste.

On the bed, he made to kiss Tom a few times but Tom kept evading him, giving Chris his cheek or his throat, or running the tip of his nose up and down the corner of Chris’ mouth. They spent what felt like a century nosing each other like puppies, Tom’s hands squeezing Chris’ shoulder blades as Chris rubbed himself rhythmically against his hip.

Chris managed to press a few kisses to Tom’s face and the back of his ears but then Tom began palming his cock through his jeans and his brain started to leak out of his ears.

“I wanna suck your cock,” Tom murmured.

“ _Jesus_ ,” Chris muttered. He felt Tom smile against him and wanted desperately to kiss it off his face; their lips were so close but he sensed kissing would be a tetchy subject for Tom. He didn’t want to push his luck.

“I wanna see it,” Tom continued. “ _Come on._ I bet it’s big, isn’t it? Fat and heavy and so full of come for me. Would you like me to suck your cock Christopher? Don’t you think I have a pretty mouth?”

“Jesus,” Chris groaned again, “Yes, yes, _yes._ You’repretty _, so fucking pretty._ Come here. _”_ He kissed him on the forehead despite the dialogue that Chris was sure was lifted straight out of porn. Nobody talked like that in real life, or if they did, Chris hadn’t met them yet. He was hardly sexually adventurous.

Tom shivered and wiggled out of his embrace, lifting his shirt over his head and flinging it across the room. Chris was already shimmying out of his trousers before Tom had even crawled between his legs, frantically tugging his belt out of the way and not even pausing to de-shoe.

Chris had barely gotten rid of his trousers when Tom’s face hovered over his lap. He smiled up at Chris, his eyes half lidded, and started rubbing his cheek against the cotton of Chris’ underwear without warning. He was like a cat, breathing in Chris’ scent, moaning against his clothed dick, nuzzling him in turns.

Chris lurched up and groaned when Tom slid a hand over him.

“Fuck,” he breathed, hips spasming as Tom closed his lips over Chris’ cloth-covered cock, squirming his tongue until his spit had wet the material enough for Chris to feel its contrapuntal swirl directly on his cock. Tom lifted his head for a moment but it was only to pull off Chris’ boxers. As soon as they came off, he took Chris in hand, his grip spit-slick around the base of Chris’ cock. He set a leisurely pace, watching with hungry eyes as Chris’ cock beaded with precome at the tip.

Chris gritted his teeth and tried not to come right away but all he could think of was Tom and his pretty mouth, the relief of having that sweet welcoming heat wrap around him like a glove. “I’m going to suck you now,” Tom said, as if Chris needed the blow-by-blow.

But Tom made good on his promise, licking up Chris’ shaft in deliberate stripes till Chris’ was trembling and wanting to thrust in his mouth. Then Tom parted his lips and bent his head and Chris had to stifle a shout. Tom wrapped his hand around what he couldn’t fit in his mouth, bobbing his head rhythmically, letting the head of Chris’ cock brush the back of his throat till his eyes ran with tears. He was so good that Chris tried not to think of what it could mean. He sat up a little and began fucking Tom’s mouth, clenching his fingers into Tom’s hair to tug him roughly forward, on and on till Tom finally pulled off, his face flushed, his eyes wet, his lips beautifully swollen from sucking cock.

Chris wanted to kiss him but before he could, Tom’s hand was pumping his cock again, his tongue licking the sensitive underside seconds before Chris came in his face.

Chris relaxed in increments, eventually getting his breathing to settle. He was always so boneless after an orgasm he could hardly summon the will to open his eyes. But he did this time, peeling his eyelids open which had gummed together in pleasure, just to watch Tom wipe come off his face, slip out of his shorts and shove everything including his underwear down his bony ankles. 

And there it was, the whole of him, finally revealed: the light dusting of blonde hair on his legs caught the light and made Chris’ throat catch. Tom’s smooth cock, the pale insides of his thighs, the port-wine stain there on his hip bone the size of a thumb in the shape of Argentina – Chris wanted to put his mouth on everything.

“My turn,” Tom said with a soft smile.

\---

“I can’t come unless I’ve got a finger in me,” Tom said. “So finger me.”

“What?” Chris said. He laughed nervously but then realized Tom hadn’t meant this to be funny.

Tom reached over to the nightstand to retrieve a tube of lubricant from the top drawer. Chris could see it was already half empty, the bottom half squeezed within an inch of its life, which meant Tom had been getting busy.

Chris nearly dropped the tube when Tom handed it over; his fingers shook as he carefully uncapped the lube, the knot in his throat growing bigger and bigger till he was panting hard through his nose. He’d wanted to return the favor but Tom apparently had some issues he needed working out because he refused Chris’ offer of a blowjob.

Chris was only allowed to touch his cock and now, apparently, stick his fingers up his arse too. Tom rolled onto his stomach, lifting his hips, spreading his knees a comfortable width apart. He wriggled which made Chris give his arse a playful slap which in turn made Tom moan and cant his hips back. Sometimes, Chris could still surprise himself.

He moved behind Tom, gave another slap on the meat of his buttock just because he could, before squeezing a dollop of lube on his palm. He warmed it first and rubbed his hands together. Another generous squeeze and his fingers were slippery enough and slick. He felt his cock give an interesting twitch at the thought of what he was about to do. Tom rolled his hips on the covers as Chris breached him with the first finger, and he whimpered like a cat in heat, moving like one too, his whole body undulating.

It was hard going at first, so Chris pressed the pad of his finger against the furled skin of Tom’s hole, testing the give, teasing his thumb lightly over Tom’s perineum and giving his left hip a squeeze for comfort. But he’d underestimate how much Tom loved getting fingered because not a minute later and Chris had two digits stuffed in him to the knuckle.

Tom groaned when Chris pulled them out to replenish his fingers with lube. This time he tried three fingers, and was rewarded by the gratuitous sight of Tom’s giving hole stretching and swallowing them up. His body was so greedy, which Chris thought shouldn’t have been a surprise. He was rutting on the bed now, pumping his hips back and forth between his hand and Chris’. Precome dotted the sheets below him and his shoulders were mottled with a deep flush spreading up his neck. Chris leaned over him, covering him with his body, bracing himself on one arm.

Tom’s body was warm, so warm, and Chris buried his face in his neck, his eyelids scratched by Tom’s soft curls, breathing in the sharp tang of his sweat. His shampoo smelled like lemongrass. Chris’ skin felt tight, electric, not his own and far too small for his body. He wanted to fuck Tom, and suddenly wanted even more than that.

Tom grunted, adjusting his knees. Chris’ reached down with his other hand and wrapped his fingers over Tom’s on his cock. Tom let out a sharp gasp, hips stuttering, but he kept moving them so he could fuck into Chris’ fist and back against his fingers.

“Ah, fuck, fuck, _yes_ ,” Tom hissed, “Yes, that feels good. Un, Chris, _yeah,_ finger me, fuck I’m almost, almost—”

He never got to finish his sentence. Chris rolled his wrist, and Tom was coming, thick white stripes across the covers. He shuddered, wouldn’t stop trembling, even after Chris ran his hands up and down his sides and nuzzled him behind his ear.

The skin there was silky smooth, unbearably soft against Chris’ lips but he resisted the urge to kiss it now that he knew Tom had gotten what he wanted from him. He may be less receptive to displays of affection.

Tom whimpered as Chris slipped his fingers free. He slumped on his front, and Chris wiped his hand across the covers before joining Tom on the other side of the bed, careful not to lie on the wet pool of come. Tom’s eyes were closed and he looked more peaceful than Chris had ever seen him before. His lips were slightly parted; his eyelashes curtained his cheeks.

Chris suddenly felt the hungry urge light up a joint. He didn’t like where his thoughts were headed, already muddled by ganja and the haze of a satisfying orgasm.

Just then Tom’s eyes blinked open. He wasn’t smiling, but his gaze didn’t communicate anything untoward which brought Chris immense relief. The last thing he needed was to get kicked out of bed; he didn’t think his pride could take the beating. He was feeling rather good about himself tonight, a record fucking high.

The sound of movement in the hall interrupted Chris’ musings. Tom met his gaze and then sat up abruptly. A pair of footsteps were swimming closer and Chris tried hard to remember if Tom had the foresight to lock the door. He could feel himself sweating again, the blood draining from his face.

“Mother?” Tom called out tentatively. Mrs Hiddleston’s modulated voice responded a second later, delighted but tired. Chris hadn’t seen her since she hired him that he’d almost forgotten she existed.

Tom held up a finger at Chris. “Shh, shhh, shut up,” he hissed, clamping a hand over Chris’ mouth.

“I’m watching a film mother,” Tom continued. “Did you and father have a good time at the resort?”

“The loveliest time darling,” said Mrs Hiddleston. There was another sound at the end of the hall, like the wheels of luggage hitting the seams in the tile. Tom’s father, Chris thought.

Tom nodded, fake smile wide in his face which Chris had no doubt was hurting his teeth. It was painful to look at: the manic grin stretched Tom’s face uncomfortably but didn’t reach his eyes. “I’ll see you in the morning then, won’t I? At breakfast?”

“Oh certainly, sweetheart. Certainly! Good night then. Enjoy your film.”

“Good night!” Tom said.

There was a lengthy pause and then Chris could hear half of a conversation, most of it muffled. Tom walked over, locked the door, then grabbed his underwear off the floor, completely un-self-conscious of the fact Chris was staring at him, had trouble looking anywhere else. He slid his underwear up his legs, his hips, letting the waistband dip right below where his stomach ended, making Chris’ heart do all sorts of crazy things, a somersault, a nosedive, a fucking backflip; it was ridiculous. Tom had him hook, line and sinker.

The little brat smirked, like he could somehow intuit Chris’ thoughts.

“I thought for sure she was gonna come in here,” Chris said, rubbing the back of his neck in embarrassment, finally looking away.

“The likelihood of that happening is slim,” Tom said, a curious expression blanketing his face. He planted his hands on his hips, looking suddenly thoughtful, the change in demeanor giving Chris mood whiplash.

“Now I’m not sure about you but that made me hungry,” Tom said. “I’m so fucking hungry right now I could eat a cow.”

“You ate an entire bowl of pudding,” Chris said. “It had two layers of cream and fruit in it.”

Tom just shrugged, toeing his shirt on the floor before putting it on. “I have quite the appetite,” he said as he poked his head out the neckline, smoothing the hem over his hips.

Chris missed the nakedness right away.

“Well?” Tom said, tone expectant.

Chris sighed. “I know just the place,” he told him, reluctantly rolling out of bed.

Tom grinned and flung his boxers at his face. “Well, get dressed then.”

\---

Chris ended up driving them back to town. It was barely midnight but most of the shops had their shutters down expect for Sputnik Sweetheart, an incongruously named Mexican themed restaurant at the very end of the street, next to a pawn shop and dive bar.

Tom zeroed in in on the dive bar but Chris dragged him away towards the purpose of their visit: food. Sputnik Sweetheart had a neon sign outside, the pink R blinking every five seconds to spell: _sputnik sweetheat_. You had to follow the grated metal staircase that led from the front door to the restaurant itself.

It was just a basement, furnished with comfortable velvet chairs like the inside of a fortune teller’s studio. Sputnik Sweetheart was cramped but well-lit and equally well-liked by the locals, the walls a cozy carpet red and painted with _Day of the Dead_ inspired murals: skeletons danced jauntily under a sickle moon, while long-haired women with sneering skeletal faces peered down from the walls. There were sombreros hanging from the wall too, religious artifacts, framed prints of famous Conquistadors with thick beards and sharp Toledo blades all crowded for attention.

Tom looked awestruck and ran his hands across the tables. The air conditioning was on, which was nice, and soft guitar music wafted from the speakers set into the wall, which was nicer. It was the same server tonight. The dark-haired man gave Chris his usual dour look before fishing out a couple of menu cards from behind the bar.

“Oh god, I want to eat everything,” Tom said as soon as they were seated. His eyes were bright, and his face open and he looked well and truly excited like a kid on Christmas morning.

“They take credit cards,” Chris said. “Just so you know.”

Tom laughed. “Excellent, because we’re getting one of everything.”

They settled for enchiladas, tacos, a whole tray of tortilla chips with guacamole and sour cream dip. Chris had always loved eating with his hands but watching Tom eat was an experience unto itself. Chris drank half his beer without noticing and smiled as Tom licked the pads of his fingers clean. Tom ate greedily, his cheeks stuffed perpetually like a chipmunk’s, reaching out to scoop some guacamole dip with a crumbling chip before stuffing his mouth with a whole handful. Chips crunched and fell across his chin. He had a napkin tucked daintily into his shirt, which seemed at odds with the frantic pace of his eating.

Chris ate his fill, the beans and rice sitting heavily in his stomach, making him lethargic. Sex, and then spicy food. It truly was one of the best nights of his life.

Tom held out a chip towards him and Chris looked at him before accepting. “The dip is great, isn’t it?” Tom said as his fingers touched the edges of Chris’ lips. He smiled, pleased, pulling his hand away, licking his fingers from pinky to thumb, biting down gently on the last digit with a hum.

The rosy glow of spice permeated the back of Chris’ tongue and he sipped his bear to chase down the taste, keeping his eyes fixed on Tom the entire time. “Yeah,” he agreed. “Just great.”

Finally, it was time to take him home. Chris was lucky he was only tipsy, not roaringly drunk like he was on most summer nights, and he was able to drive Tom home without incident. The driveway was empty except for the Hiddleston’s rental Bugatti in chrome red, a flashy sports car Chris knew he would never get to drive. But one could always dream.

Tom unclipped his seatbelt and slid off the passenger side of the jeep, his shoes crunching the gravel at the drop. Even in the blue black darkness of early morning, Chris thought he looked beautiful, his face smooth, his slack mouth parted, his eyes heavy-lidded from exhaustion. It felt like the end of a long beautiful dream: the harder Chris tried to hold on to it, the faster it slipped away from him.

“We should do this again, pool boy,” Tom said, his voice a low tired rasp.

Chris didn’t ask him what he meant – the weed, the sex, or the Mexican food – somehow knowing he may not like the answer. Tom slammed the jeep door shut and ascended the front steps.

At the front door, he turned and gave Chris a wry two-finger salute.


	2. two: just like heaven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _show me how you do that trick  
>  the one that makes me scream_   
>  **\--just like heaven, the cure**

\---

The sex changed nothing but the weed changed everything. By the end of the week, they had smoked the rest of the bag, alternating between the pool house and Tom’s room. But the lady that came to clean once a week seemed like she was onto them, eyeing them suspiciously as she gathered the laundry or vacuumed the carpet.

The pool house and by extension, Tom’s room, reeked of ganja, the smell of desert after a rain, like newly turned earth, rich and heady. It masked the smell of sweat and sex and the greasy cloying stench of fast food; Tom wasn’t kidding when he said smoking weed made him horny. And hungry.

A few things stayed the same though: Chris still wasn’t allowed to kiss him, nor was he treated with less disdain before Tom was properly baked.

The no blowjob rule was still in place, but Chris contented himself by anchoring Tom in his lap, stroking his cock in a fist while Tom rubbed his own hole with the tip of a finger, his thighs spread wide over Chris’ legs. He really seemed to enjoy that more than Chris thought was possible and it was weirdly endearing to watch him fuck himself on his fingers, trembling and whining high-pitched and needy.

Tom’s head lolled across Chris’ shoulder as Chris pumped his cock, and he murmured Chris’ name over and over like a mantra, eyes moving under his closed lids, his nose pressed to the side of Chris’ face in an approximation of a kiss – “Let me come, let me come, I’m ready to come, please.” – begging Chris like he had the power to tune his body like an instrument.

Sometimes, they 69ed, a much favourable position that afforded Chris the best view of Tom’s hole. He fingered him while Tom sucked him off, and it was so filthy but Chris loved it. He loved all the noises Tom made, loved that he was unashamed of asking for what he wanted. He loved most of all when Tom came across his chest in spurts, and clenched around his fingers like a vice, but didn’t stop sucking his dick, like it was somehow his mission in life to get Chris to finish too.

The orgasms were always mind-numbing, leaving Chris feeling like his soul had left his body. If Tom were particularly in the mood, he lapped up all of Chris’ come from his chest and fingers, and didn’t kick him out of bed until half an hour later, and if Chris were luckier, the next morning.

It was moments like that, when they were lying connected in a post-coital haze, that made Chris hold onto him like a lifeline and want to rub his stiffening dick against Tom’s hole just to feel the give. And time and time again Chris would be tempted to kiss him, and even when Tom was being a complete arse himself, the urge never completely went away. Chris had a feeling it never would. Somehow he found himself not completely averse to the idea.

\---

On Saturday, Marta, the cleaning lady, almost caught them in the act, though she had the decency to knock first and have them scrambling to get their bearings together. The door wasn’t even locked; they were lucky Marta knew her boundaries.

They kicked the stash of weed under the bed, and turned the rug over to cover the mess of half-smoked spliffs on the floor, aborted attempts at a homemade bong and the contraband gay porn magazine that Tom had smuggled from boarding school with the front page torn off; their clothes were pulled on as an afterthought but even an idiot could figure out what they’d been doing all afternoon: Tom’s eyes were red and dilated and Chris suspected so was his.

Tom’s mouth was flushed from sucking cock, and he had a hickey on his neck the size of Queensland. Chris had been the one to put it there and he felt proud for a moment until Marta knocked again.

“Mister Tom sir, I’m here with your laundry.”

“Come in, Marta, we were just… _chatting_.” Tom threw Chris a nervous look which Chris returned, standing stiffly like a cadet next to the bed. Marta was friendly enough but she reported directly to Tom’s parents and any suspicious activity between the both of them could get Tom anywhere between grounded, his spending privileges revoked, or sent to an international school in Switzerland where the course load alone would make his ears bleed. There was no middle ground. They spoiled him rotten but only if he acquiesced to their whims. If he were caught fraternizing with the pool boy, naked, they would probably take him off the family will.

“We need to move HQ,” said Tom after Marta had gone. She spent fifteen glorious minutes folding and refolding Tom’s shirts before putting them in the closet.

“Please don’t say HQ,” Chris said as he locked the door behind him. They waited a beat before dissolving into fits of laughter. They didn’t smoke again for the rest of the day and Tom went back to his regular routine of lounging by the pool in tiny barely-there Speedos while Chris crouched in the shallow end of the water, chasing leaves with a five foot net.

But Chris knew Tom was right; they had to be careful. He didn’t want to lose this job because he had rent to pay by the end of the month on top of the loans he’d incurred paying for a year loafing abroad. He needed the money. Besides, he _liked_ cleaning the pool. The constant repetition made the chore soothing, almost meditative, and like Tom said, it wasn’t all that taxing but he was compensated well, almost excessively.

\---

It hadn’t been Chris’ idea but Tom insisted it was the only course of action.

Tom sat on the carpet with his legs extended, his foot massaging Chris’ inner thigh before pressing the arch gently over Chris’ covered erection.

“What do you think?” Tom said, fingers knitted across his chest, head pillowed on a rolled up afghan. “We could smoke all we want, and not get caught. We could do anything. Say yes, Chris.” He put a little more pressure on his foot and Chris groaned, grabbing Tom’s foot, his slim ankle, his grip tight with warning.

Tom was unruffled. He was enjoying this. “Say yes,” he purred.

“ _Yes_ ,” Chris hissed, and Tom smiled and crawled over between Chris’ legs as soon as Chris relinquished his hold on his ankle. It was almost pathetic how easily Tom could play him.

That was how they ended up every night in Chris’ apartment. All it took for Chris to cave was a blowjob which afterwards left him feeling legitimately used and dirty.

Chris wasn’t so keen on smoking weed all the time, he couldn’t remember a time in his life when he felt so dazed, but he was keen on having Tom to himself without fear of repercussions. So he smoked, and toked, but kept it to a minimum, just to get a good buzz going at the back of his skull and keep the anxiety at bay. He wanted to remain clear-headed for what he knew would follow shortly after the proceedings: the sweaty ganja-induced sex.

The only fly in the ointment were Chris’ roommates Sam and Amir, who, when they were home played a lot of rap music and beer pong. Amir was a graduate student at ANU while Sam waited tables, waiting for his film career to take off; the three of them together were a rowdy bunch. Chris had seen Sam and Amir’s ad on the newspaper half a year ago, looking for a third fool with whom to share the rent.

“I tried to warn you,” Chris said once they entered the apartment. The wall of sound hit them like a punch: Tupac’s _I Wonder If Heaven Got A Ghetto_ [[x](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_fCoK2OVJAc)]. The apartment was a mishmash of modern furniture and throwaways: there were movie posters on the wall next to a framed Picasso print that Sam had stolen from his last waiting job.

The couch was a wrap around, but had a knitted blanket thrown over it and alternating yellow and blue canvas pillows, courtesy of Chris’ mum’s last care package. The shag rug had seen better days beer-stained and pockmarked with cigarettes holes.

Chris plugged a finger into his ear as he made his way to the stereo, lowering the volume considerably and making the walls shake less. “Jesus,” he muttered. “That hurt my ears.”

“I bet you know all the words to that song anyway,” Tom said, like he could see through Chris. Chris blushed because it was, at least in part true, – he’d bought the CD – but he had enough self-respect not to admit that.

Amir and Sam caught them en route to his room, Amir with an armful of chilled beer cans and Sam in his _Wallabies_ shirt, looking tired after double shifts at the _Mercurial Lounge._

“Hey, Chris, who’s your little friend?” Sam asked. He looked like he was trying hard not to laugh. Chris had anticipated the question and dreaded it. The only thing he would complain about his job was Tom –Tom was little shit; kid probably has a drinking problem; he needs to learn to close his goddamn legs and stop giving everybody an eyeful – complaints, which, Chris now realized, were only masking the real problem at hand: his attraction to Tom.

Sam probably knew who Tom was, could deduce that Tom fit Chris’ description of absorbed Hiddleston brat: tall and thin, with a shocking head of curls but a pretty cocksucker’s mouth. Chris felt mean for thinking that now, though in his darkest moments the thought still prevailed: Tom’s mouth was so lush and so pretty that it was surely made to suck cock.

As Sam waited patiently for a response, Chris paled. Maybe this was karma. “This is Tom,” he said just as Tom said, “I’m not little. I’m young, there’s a difference.”

Sam laughed. Amir looked impressed. “Ooh, feisty, I like that,” Sam said.

“How are you doing Tom?” asked Amir. He was, between Chris and Sam, the level-headed one at least before he got enough drink in him.

“Pretty well,” Tom said.

“We’ve heard so much about you,” Amir continued. Chris felt a lurch in his stomach.

“Only good things I hope?” said Tom. Chris chuckled nervously.

Amir smiled, darting his gaze back to Chris, his smile thinning into a smirk. “Oh, of course. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you. You’re exactly how we pictured you.”

“Lovely and charismatic?” said Tom. No, Chris thought. _Hot and bratty_.

Amir laughed but said nothing. Blessed relief. They exchanged more pleasantries before Amir disappeared into the living room.

“So are you and Chris—” Sam, because he had less social graces than Amir, made a rude gesture meant to mimic fellatio. Tom laughed it off but Chris wanted to die though not before wringing Sam’s neck. Several times.

Chris grabbed Tom’s wrist, herding him to the direction of his room down the hall before the awkwardness escalated to dangerous levels. “Anyway, we’ll just be on our way.” Chris gave Sam a significant look and Sam pushed himself off the wall right on cue, lifting his hands. “Oh, right, right, see you guys. Nice meeting you Tom.”

“Yeah, see you,” Chris muttered, rolling his eyes. He shut the door behind him, locked it and leaned his weight against it, pressing his forehead to the surface to quell his embarrassment before he had to face Tom. His room was the smallest in the apartment, second only to the kitchen: just a double mattress in the corner with a red duvet, a closet, a desk, an air conditioner rattling in the corner window. The windowsill groaned under the weight of accumulated crap: bonsai pots, books, the consolation trophy Chris had won in an amateur surfing competition two years ago.

Chris finally deigned to turn around. Tom walked over to the stereo over which Chris had taped a poster of _Siouxsie & the Banshees._ His smile flickered then disappeared. “Do you have a lighter? I left mine in your car.”

Chris almost wanted to laugh, at himself, at the situation, for being so so stupid. Of course they were here for the weed and no other reason. _Of course._

He rolled Tom a couple of spliffs which Tom smoked while he lay flat on Chris’ bed. Chris sat at his feet, watching him intently.

The smoke wove its way up to the ceiling but Chris focused on the curl of Tom’s lips, how his cheeks hollowed with every inhale and exhale. The more he watched him, the more he wanted to keep looking but then he felt like a creep for staring so he climbed in next to him instead, arm dangling off the edge of the tiny mattress.

Chris felt like he wasn’t drunk enough for this. Two weeks ago Tom barely acknowledged him except to ask him to pass him the bottle of sun crème. Now they were here. Surreal.

Tom sat up as he flipped through Chris’ CD collection, paging through the leather booklet while his other hand held his spliff aloft.

“You have terrible taste in music,” he said without preamble, breaking the quiet. Chris touched the small of his back and Tom hummed, compliant now because he was already baked. Chris slid his hand under Tom’s shirt and started stroking his spine thoughtfully.

Tom’s skin was flushed and hot, the knobs of his spine obvious, little hiccups under his skin. “Let me see here: David Gray, Radiohead, Jeff Buckley… Don’t you have New Order? I like that song they have: Temptation? Have you heard of it? Oh god you have Elton John here too?”

Chris grunted. “Shut up, that’s my brother’s.”

But Tom wouldn’t stop laughing. Chris pinched him on the hip purely out of spite though there was hardly any fat on his bones.

Tom squeaked. “You dick!” He slapped Chris’ hand off him. “That really hurt!”

“Then I’ll kiss it better for you, you filthy brat.”

Tom giggled, such a young boyish sound. “I’m filthy aren’t I?” He took another hit, closing his eyes.

“Shameless,” Chris affirmed, watching him throw his head back to absorb it.

Then Tom glanced down and freed the Elton John CD from its plastic jacket, a maniacal glint in his eye that gave Chris a bad feeling. “Let me put this CD on. I haven’t heard _Candle in The Wind_ [[x](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8S4DeMnpjuI)] since Princess Diana’s funeral.”

He left the bed, and Chris groaned and closed his eyes as the song started to play.

“Oh god.”

“What?” Tom said.

Chris blinked his eyes open as the mattress dipped beside him. Tom swung a leg over Chris’ hip. He was smiling, his eyes glimmering in sick amusement.

“Brat,” Chris said fondly as Tom hummed the opening verses.

“You think that don’t you,” Tom said, hovering his face over Chris’ so dangerously close. He made himself comfortable in Chris’ lap, squirming and wriggling, and Chris’ hands instinctively clutched at his hips, his thumbs feeling out the obvious bones. The weed had settled, no doubt. Sometimes it took awhile before Tom felt playful again, resisting Chris’ advances less and less.

“I don’t really think you’re a brat,” Chris said, startled himself by the truth.

“Liar,” Tom accused. But his voice was soft like his eyes and he lay his head on Chris’ shoulder, mumbling the rest of the song off-key. His whole body was warm, slotted to fit Chris’ own perfectly. It amazed Chris how breakable Tom felt in his arms, his frame narrow and angular, his shoulders lethally sharp. Chris hugged him to his chest before rolling them over so he was on top, or at least half on top of Tom. He was heavy; he didn’t want his weight to crush him.

Tom kicked at him feebly without any real force, laughing as Chris tickled his sides and bit him gently on the stomach. Tom scooped up his spliff from the bed as Chris settled down next to him and put an arm around his waist, slipping his hand back inside Tom’s shirt to caress his ribs.

Chris looked down and breathed a noseful of lemongrass curls. He was beginning to love that smell. Tom glanced up at him, raising his eyebrows in question. His bare foot rubbed through the hair on Chris’ shin. “Sometimes when you’re quiet like this I like you enough,” Chris said. He hadn’t meant for it to sound like a confession but that was how it came across.

Tom huffed, jabbed him in the chest so hard it almost knocked the breath out of him. He was pretty strong for someone with his size and weight class. “I’m the most likeable person in the world,” he said. “Shush now.”

“Yeah, well, keep telling yourself that,” Chris said.

Tom laughed. Chris pressed his nose to Tom’s forehead and leaned down to kiss him but Tom brought his hand up to press the spliff to Chris’ lips. Chris blinked but pulled a hit in his lungs, relaxing against the pillows, feeling comfortably unmoored.

Maybe it was the weed; maybe it was the knowledge that he had Tom there in his arms. Maybe it was the song, the strangely hypnotic but incongruous lyrics: _and I would have liked to have known you, but I was just a kid._ But for the first time in a long time he felt like things were going to be okay. Nothing could take him out of this moment. Nothing.

Tom snuffled into his armpit. “I think you needed that,” he yawned, watching Chris with a strange expression. “I hardly see you smoking anything these last few days.”

Chris shrugged and made a noncommittal noise in answer. He closed his eyes, too blissed out to speak. Then he felt Tom press his free hand to his crotch, his palm kneading Chris until his cock twitched to life. Tom’s hand had a whole mind of its own, it seemed, as it undid Chris’ fly and slipped shamelessly inside his waistband.

“I’m horny Christopher,” Tom whispered into Chris’ ear, a low whine that sent Chris shivering. “I’m so horny right now and I want to suck your _cock_.” He licked Chris’ earlobe to punctuate his statement. Chris tightened his arm around Tom’s waist just as Tom started a comfortable rhythm.

“Tom,” Chris said, but what came out was just garbled noise. He clenched his teeth, nodded his assent, though he had no idea what exactly he was agreeing to, and felt his stomach drop when Tom freed his cock and breathed moist hot breath against it.

Nothing could take him out of this moment. Nothing. And then he felt it at the first slide of tongue: _bliss._

\---

There was always a dreamlike quality that followed orgasm that Chris wished never had to end. His brain took a moment to realign itself with reality, his thoughts moving sluggishly as if trudging through fog and mud. He wiggled his fingers and toes, pressed his tongue to the roof of his mouth and blinked.

 _God_ , he thought. _Where had Tom learned how to suck cock like that?_ Surely not in boarding school. What do they teach these kids anyway? Chris was only twenty one, and had slept with a total of four people. None of them held a candle to Tom and to compare their skills in bed seemed like blasphemy. _Jesus_.

Back to the present, with only Sam and Amir’s playlist as white noise, Tom kicked off his shoes and unhooked his trousers. He pushed his shirt off his shoulders without an ounce of self-consciousness before sliding into the bed on top of Chris.

Chris was still reeling from the blowjob, sweaty and naked and all too dumb to form a coherent thought, so he let Tom guide his hands to his hips, let Tom unmake him with his mouth leaving wet trails across his neck. Chris ran his fingernails up and down Tom’s sides. The air conditioner was on too high and made the small hairs on Tom’s arms stand on end. When Chris felt around for Tom’s cock between them, Tom’s breath hitched, the soft skin along his stomach rising in goosebumps. His skin felt hot on Chris’, feverish.

“Chris,” Tom said. “ _Chris_.”

Tom lifted his mouth from Chris’ neck and groaned when Chris curled his hand.

“You wanna?” Chris gasped. He didn’t even have to finish the question because Tom was already nodding and rolling onto his back. He was even more beautiful naked, body so crazy-making that Chris often had trouble trying not to fuck him through the floor. Chris wanted to kiss him from neck to ankle.

On top of the duvet, Tom spread his legs, undulating his hips as he fucked his fist – a sight that Chris didn’t need to see if he wanted to keep his wits about him. Chris leaned over him, kissing his collarbone, his sternum, everywhere he could reach with his mouth that wasn't Tom's lips. He’d already come moments ago but he felt his dick stir each time their skins brushed, the point of contact magnetic it made his body shake.

“The lube,” Chris murmured, nosing the soft hairs on the back of Tom’s neck. Tom pointed to the floor where their clothes snaked a trail leading to the bed. Chris fished the tube out of Tom’s back pocket, flipped it in the air just for show and grinned when Tom rolled his eyes, huffing. In the living room, the music had stopped all of a sudden, which either meant Sam and Amir had retired to bed or had passed the point of inebriation where they didn’t care to refresh their playlist. The only sound in the room besides the rustling of the duvet was the hum of the air conditioner.

Chris warmed the lube with his fingers before kneeling on the bed in front of Tom’s open legs. He was already fingering himself, too impatient to wait for Chris. Chris batted his hand away and moved between his knees to cup the underside of Tom’s thighs, lift him off the bed. He’d seen the trick on the porn mag Tom had shown him a few days ago, a guy rimming the hell out of his little boyfriend, his beard all wet with spit. Chris may have pocketed the page for future reference, going over the picture over and over, transposing himself and Tom in their place. He wanted to know what Tom tasted like.

“Relax,” Chris said, and licked up the inside of Tom’s knee.

Tom clamped his legs over Chris’ ears, boxing him in between his thighs. His cock was a hard thick line between his closed fingers, wet and heavy.

“I’m not gonna put my dirty mouth on your cock,” Chris said, rolling his eyes. “If that’s what you’re worried about.”

“You better not,” Tom whined.

“You want my fingers?” Chris said.

Tom looked hesitant but nodded shortly after Chris started stroking his hip. “Well all right, then you’re gonna have to stop choking me so I could fuck you with them. All right?” Chris raised his eyebrows expectantly.

“All right,” Tom finally acquiesced. He let Chris go, giggling nervously when Chris started mouthing the back of his thigh. A few more breaths and then Tom’s body lost its unusual stiffness; he relaxed, closed his eyes, started purring when Chris nuzzled the port-wine stain on his hip.

“I’m gonna try something,” Chris said, and then touched the tip of his tongue to Tom’s perineum. He slid his tongue even lower, encouraged by Tom’s startled moan, flicking his tongue over the mauve asterisk of Tom’s hole.

Tom nearly kicked him in the face when Chris spread him open with his thumbs, tapping the rim with the flat of his tongue before kneading the furled skin with the pads of his fingers. He tasted a little musky, but Chris thought he could get used to it, a low simmer of desire spiking up his blood when Tom’s entire body started trembling and he bore down against Chris’ jaw.

“Stop messing about— oh, _fuck_!” Tom missed his face again.

Chris kept his hand under Tom’s thigh, while the other one reached across the duvet for the discarded tube of lube. His fingers weren’t as slippery as he wanted them to be and he uncapped the tube using his teeth. He spat out the cap and poured a generous amount into his palm which he used to rub up Tom’s stiff dick. Tom let him, trembling harder all over, nodding his head _yes_ and clenching his teeth.

Tom was about to come, Chris knew, the flush on his chest spreading across his neck and chest, like a starburst. Chris squirmed a finger inside of him, a tentative push that had Tom red-faced and sobbing over how good it felt. Chris’ middle finger sunk clean to the knuckle with hardly any resistance.

Chris moved his hand, angled his wrist, amazed at how responsive Tom’s body was. Above him, Tom panted, biting his lip as he watched Chris breach him, gripping his cock. Another finger, pushed so deep Tom’s hips lifted off the bed, and Tom was gone, stripping his cock viciously as Chris fucked him with his fingers, rubbing his prostate till he was a shivering whimpering mess.

Tom slumped after he’d come down from his high, wiping his stomach with the corner of Chris’ duvet. He said nothing for a long moment as he collected himself, his legs shaky as he flexed them. Then he reached forward and touched Chris’ hair, uncharacteristically affectionate as he twisted the knotted strands and giggled. He lowered his mouth to taste himself on Chris’ two fingers, sucking them down to the knuckle.

Chris swallowed tightly.

“You’re going to have to do that again, pool boy,” Tom said with a satisfied shiver. He slipped his ankles to Chris’ shoulders, crossing his feet behind Chris’ head, bringing Chris suddenly face to face with his sleeping cock with a sharp tug of his knees. Chris wanted to dart his tongue out for a taste but didn’t want to break the unspoken rule. There were things even the weed couldn’t make Tom do. Like grow a heart, he thought wryly.

“First things first though,” Tom said, stretching almost cat-like against the pillows. He crossed his arms behind his head and Chris found himself transfixed by the shadow of dark hair under his arms.

Tom flexed his legs around Chris’ back and kicked his heels gently into Chris’ sides like Chris was some sort of horse he was bringing to canter. Chris grunted but otherwise didn’t complain. The lazy smirk in Tom’s face kept him in place.

“I’m famished,” Tom said. “Do you have anything to eat here?”

Chris was already scrambling off the bed to call for pizza before Tom could toss a pair of pants at his head.

\---

It was funny how Chris’ roommates seemed to like Tom more than him, testament to how interesting of a person Chris was. They played beer pong, all four of them, and Tom ended up spending the night, smoking a considerable amount of weed, going through Chris’ record collection till he fell asleep, naked as a newborn on top of the duvet. He refused to put any clothes on after they’d had sex, eating pizza on Chris’ bed naked and flicking pepperoni at him, giving Chris a handsome eyeful as Tom sat with his legs crossed underneath him. He at least wore boxers whenever he ventured outside to use the bathroom or get himself something to drink, in case he ran into Sam and Amir, but as soon as the door had shut behind him, they went flying off his ankles.

They had sex again after: Tom blew him, kneeling on the floor, his deepthroating technique even better than last time. He swallowed Chris’ come, moaned when Chris grabbed his hair. In return, Chris let Tom hump his thigh and rub his come all over his chest, his nails grazing Chris’ nipples, leaving their own indelible marks.

It was Chris who fell asleep first, lulled by the rhythmic squeak of the mattress springs as Tom jumped and danced around to _Radiohead_ on the bed _._ He did it mostly so he had an excuse to kick Chris in the ribs, not too hard that Chris was jarred out of his sleep but annoying enough that Chris had to smack his shins a few times just to get him to behave.

When Chris woke, it was at the crack of dawn and his Radiohead CD was skipping. _Permanent Daylight_ [[x](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fFHMoT8sCXg)] was jittering softly before it could reach the vocals.

Chris got up, walked over to the stereo to turn it off, and scanned the mess on the floor. The light in the room was hazy, the desk lamp bathing the walls in a soft dreamlike glow. He kicked at the empty boxes of pizza on the floor before gathering all their clothes and folding them neatly on his desk. The rest of the apartment was quiet; there was nothing but the steady hum and hiss of the air conditioner, and Tom’s intermittent shuffling as he burrowed his head under the pillows for warmth. His left arse cheek bore a teeth mark – Chris’ doing. It was already starting to bruise.

Chris sat at the edge of the mattress and pulled the duvet over him, smiling when Tom started to snore lightly. He yawned and flopped down next to him. He felt the band of heaviness behind his eyelids begin to relax, the syrupy warmth of exhaustion spreading behind his eyes. When he opened them again, it was noon and Tom was gone from the bed.

\---

Chris found him in the kitchen. He had made food while Chris had been asleep which Chris thought he didn’t know how to do: scrambled eggs, some toast, flapjacks. A late breakfast. It still smelled good which meant he’d just gotten up not too long ago. Amir was gone, having left for university. Chris spied Sam sleeping on the couch.

“Morning,” Tom said, not looking up from the newspaper. He was wearing one of Chris’ old bathrobes, the ratty tattered thing hanging off him like a sail. “I hope you don’t mind but I took this from your closet. It was the only thing that smelled remotely clean.”

“Help yourself,” Chris said, rolling his eyes, but he didn’t feel as crabby as he made himself seem. In fact, he felt utterly peaceful, if he ignored the befuddling weirdness of the situation. He hadn’t expected Tom to stay the night; he hadn’t expected to be so damn thrilled about it, either.

Tom pushed an empty plate towards him, still not looking up from the front page. There was a scandal of some sort; a politician had paid to sleep with an underage prostitute.

“There’s coffee in the pot, by the way,” said Tom as he scanned the article. “I was going to make bacon but apparently you ran out.”

“Thanks,” Chris said, still staring at him like he was an apparition. “I’ll remember that next time I go shopping.”

Tom just hummed. “Also I need to call my mum just to tell her where I am but I don’t know where your phone is.”

“It’s in Sam’s room, probably,” Chris said, piling his plate with flapjacks. They smelled like blueberries; his favourite. Tom must’ve used the mix in the cupboard. “He uses the cordless a lot to call his girlfriend. She lives in Manchester. Nicky or something. That’s why our phone bills are so high.”

Tom nodded like he was only half-listening, folding the paper in two and reaching over to the plate of flapjacks next to him. He tore a sizeable hunk and stuffed it all of it in his mouth, his cheeks full as he failed to chew with his mouth closed.

Chris gaped at him, frozen in the act of spooning sugar into his coffee. Tom swallowed then sipped daintily from a glass of orange juice. He licked his fingers.

“You’re staring.” He still hadn’t looked up.

“Well,” said Chris and watched as Tom stabbed his plate of eggs. He chewed like he was enjoying every bite.

“What?” said Tom, in a rather impatient self-conscious tone.

“ _Jesus_ , Tom.” Chris shook his head. “Where do you even put all the food?”

Tom lowered the paper to look at him. A beat passed and he smiled silkily, tilting his head like a puppy would. “Where do you think,” he said, resting his chin in his hand. “It all goes straight to my dick.”

Chris started to laugh. Tom kicked him under the table for it, but he was smiling like he was trying hard not to laugh too.

\---

The phone, it turned out, wasn’t in Sam’s room but stuffed under the couch cushions. They had found it only after prying Sam off the couch, sending him to his bed to moan about his hangover. Chris left Tom to make his phone call, drinking his coffee in tiny sips by the kitchen sink to make it last longer. It was unseasonably cool for the summer, but the sun was high and bright outside. Chris watched one of his neighbors park his car across the street before jogging back to his building like he’d forgotten something.

“Can I get a lift home?”

Chris turned at the sound of Tom’s voice. He was still wearing Chris’ dust-grey bathrobe.

Chris suspected he wore nothing underneath and the thought alone made his blood hot.

“Yeah, of course,” Chris said, finishing the last dredges of his coffee. “Just let me shower first and I’ll take you home, all right?”

“Sure,” Tom said.

Chris brushed his teeth, pissed, washed his hands in the bathroom sink before stepping into the shower. The water numbed his growing headache. He braced himself against the tiled wall. He hadn’t been standing long under the spray when the shower curtain rustled open behind him. Chris looked up through the steam: Tom again, still in the same bathrobe though the ties had come undone and were now hanging at his sides.

“Hi,” said Tom, shaking the robe off his shoulders. It fell easily, puddling around his feet. He looked like a dream Chris’ sleepy mind had conjured.

“Hey,” Chris said before he was crowded into the wall. He gasped as Tom swept his palms across his chest, confident teasing touches meant to get Chris’ hard though Tom really didn’t have to. There was no need for it when just the touch of his skin threw Chris out of his element; Tom smelled like breakfast: blueberries, sweet cream. In the cramped space of the shower, he knelt on the floor and reverently took Chris’ dick in his mouth, watching Chris from below, his eyelashes clumped wetly over his cheeks.

Tom parted his lips and swirled his tongue across the crown, bobbing his head. He knew all the tricks: how to hollow his cheeks just so, how to fondle and tease Chris’ sac in counterpoint to the swirl of his tongue. He got spit all over Chris’ dick and didn’t gag. He swallowed, moaned, pressed the heel of his hand on Chris’ hip and relaxed his throat muscles. The sweet hot suction of his mouth was exquisite and the gentle pressure of his tongue on Chris’ balls made Chris arch his hips.

But Chris didn’t want to come, not just yet, so he yanked Tom up and braced him against the wall, rubbing the wet tip of his cock across the crack of Tom’s arse.

Tom panted, curling his fingers into the tile in front of him. Chris slid two fingers into him, bullying past the initial wall of resistance, “Don’t —” Tom whimpered. “I’m not ready—”

That at least was enough to tamp down his lust.

“I’m not going to,” Chris murmured when Tom went rigid against him. He pulled out his fingers, held Tom against him with an arm around his chest, burying his face into his neck, breathing in. “I promise, I’m not. I’m sorry. Just let me feel you – just let me—” he took Tom in hand, hot and hard and already so close, and Tom panted and rocked against the motion of his fist.

“So _good_ ,” Tom whined. “So _good, Chris. Fuck_.”

They came, breathing hard and shuddering, Chris leaning his weight against Tom’s back as Tom striped the wall with his come. Chris’ own streaked Tom’s back and he wiped it down absently with a hand before peeling himself off. He pressed a kiss to the top of Tom’s spine and let the water run down his face, soak his hair through. He wanted to laugh with knee-buckling relief. His orgasms from Tom always left him breathless and he hadn’t expected Tom to surprise him in the shower. Finally, his breathing settled. He blinked his eyes open when he heard Tom exit the shower without so much as another word.

At least he had the courtesy to slide the curtain closed behind him, Chris thought. When he peered outside the curtain and glanced down on the floor he saw that Tom had taken his bathroom slippers too.


	3. three: with a boy like you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _i want to spend my life with a ~~girl~~ boy like you  
>  ba ba ba ba, ba ba ba_   
>  **\--with a girl like you, the troggs**

\---

And so it went: the next few days showed Tom making frequent appearances at the apartment. Sam and Amir adored him, thought he was hilarious. Sometimes Tom stayed the night, but most of the time Chris drove him home at curfew: Tom had to be in bed by three AM before either of his parents realized he was missing. His mum was home infrequently but sometimes at ungodly hours in the morning she woke Tom up to tell him about her dreams. It was the Botox, Tom said, it made her a little loopy. His dad could care less.

It was easy to smuggle Tom out of the house when Tom’s mum was perpetually tranquilized, nursing drink after drink in the room she never left on the rare occasion she was home. And Tom’s dad was hardly around; he came and went without prompting, sometimes showing up months after his initial disappearance. Still, Tom said, it didn’t hurt to be careful. He didn’t want his parents to be suspicious. He liked the freedom they gave him and they trusted him and treated him like an adult. He wanted none of that to end.

So like Cinderella with her mice-drawn pumpkin carriage, Chris rushed Tom home before the clock struck the hour, parking his jeep outside the gate with his headlights turned off. Each morning he drove Tom home, Tom would pull Chris flush against him so he was crowded against the hood of Chris’ jeep, his arms around Chris’ shoulders, his breath fingering Chris’ jaw. Then he would nip at his ear, making Chris shiver, and have him promise to bring more weed next time – no kissing because even when he was softened by liquor and weed, he still remembered his rules.

It was always about the weed.

If Tom developed a taste for it over the summer, Chris would probably be, in some part, responsible. But he came through every time, using money Tom gave him and sometimes even his own, just for the pleasure of Tom’s company: Tom ate all his food, wore his clothes, criticized Chris’ taste in music but danced to his CDs anyway, spinning in the tiny claustrophobic space of Chris’ cluttered bedroom, giving Chris a private show.

He terrorized Chris’ neighbor’s cat, left gold hairs in Chris’ comb in the morning, forced Chris to listen to his favourite bands – The Smiths, The Cure, New Order, bands who were all moany and English and sad about one thing or another – but he also read Chris’ sci-fi paperbacks to him right before he fell asleep, his voice a soft pleasing hum, his legs thrown across Chris’ legs.

And he gave such enthusiastic blowjobs: in the shower, once in Chris’ jeep, a few times in the kitchen when Amir and Sam had retired to bed after challenging the two of them to _Monopoly._ He was so hard to resist that Chris finally stopped trying. He surrendered with open arms.

And Tom had become such a permanent fixture in the apartment that it was hard to remember he didn’t live there. One night after a late dinner when they were all congregated in the living room, sipping Buds, Sam invited Tom to a friend’s party.

Tom looked up from the magazine he was reading and Sam said, continuing, “It’d be fun. Lots of really cool people there, great music, even greater booze.”

Tom looked to Chris. Chris blinked. He’d been looking forward to the end of the evening when Amir and Sam finally called it a night and he and Tom had the kitchen all to themselves. He almost failed to follow the flow of conversation and didn’t feel Tom tugging at his wrist.

“You can come too,” Sam told Chris.

They were all looking at him expectantly, even Amir, who had his reading glasses on. “Thanks,” Chris said dryly.

Naturally, Tom asked him about it on the drive home. He clearly wanted to go; he kept fiddling with his seatbelt and couldn’t meet Chris’ eyes. He seemed weirdly anxious. “It’d be rude not to,” he reasoned. “Besides, I’m really sick of your apartment. I think I need a change of scenery. We hardly leave your room.”

The comment stung but Chris schooled his features into a cool mask. The last few days had been heaven; he wasn’t ready to share Tom with the rest of the world just yet. And he’d been under the assumption that Tom liked his room. He once said it was like a pocket of heaven, where the two of them could get away from everything. He’d even said he liked the musty smell of Chris closet, that’s why he sometimes wore Chris’ clothes. He said all those things under the influence of ganja though so now Chris wasn’t sure what to believe.

“I don’t think I’ll be going,” Chris said as he made a left turn into oncoming traffic. He was ready to spin an elaborate tale but Tom just shrugged, interrupting him before he could continue. “Sam told me you would say that so he offered me a ride in case you weren’t available.”

“In case I’m not – Sam doesn’t even have a car!” Chris said indignantly, but Tom just shrugged again as he attempted to adjust his seatbelt.

\---

Chris ended up chaperoning him to the party. He felt like it was his duty because he worked for Tom’s parents, and he didn’t take to the idea of any random person feeling Tom up in dark enclosed spaces. He hated Sam a little for inviting Tom but felt bad almost immediately once he saw how excited Tom was about it. He’d brought an overnight bag filled with clothes for the occasion: some tight trousers and trendy shirts that hugged his lithe frame. He settled for acid washed jeans and a pair of red Chuck Taylors, a blue plaid button up over a grey v-neck shirt. He walked around Chris’ room checking his reflection in the mirror before swiping something from the clutter of Chris’ desk, his back to Chris.

When he turned around to face him, Chris saw that Tom was wearing one of his necklaces: a small silver anchor hanging from a black leather cord.

“How do I look?” Tom asked.

Chris cleared his throat. His stunned silence was probably answer enough.

Chris wore what he always wore to any party worth its salt: jeans and a button up shirt he left partway open. He spritzed on some deodorant while Tom watched him from the bed, flipping through a magazine and checking him out every five seconds. He decided against wearing jewelry that night; he didn’t want to seem like he was in it to enjoy it.

“You look like you’re the sixth member of _Take That_ ,” Tom said, rolling his eyes in distaste. He tossed his magazine aside before climbing up to his feet, confiscating the bottle of pomade from Chris and maneuvering him to the bed where he sat him down.

“My hair looks fine,” Chris grumbled, feeling embarrassed. A seventeen year old had criticized him; how much pathetic could he be?

Tom snorted; clearly he thought this wasn’t true. “You need to look like you don’t care what your hair looks like but not like you’d just rolled out of bed without a shower. There has to be a balance. Tilt your head back.”

Tom stood between Chris knees and squeezed a healthy dollop of the pomade between his palms. His face was so close that Chris could see every pore and every freckle. His cheeks were smooth, his lips furrowed in focus. Tom ran his fingers through Chris’ hair, sending shocks of electricity tingling down Chris’ spine. Tom twisted his fingers, scratched his fingernails through Chris’ scalp, then mussed the top of his hair before leaning back with an appreciative look. It would’ve been the perfect time to pull him into his lap, Chris realized, but he kept his hands to himself. That didn’t mean they didn’t shake though; the effort alone left him winded.

“Much better,” Tom said, before giving Chris’ hair another tousle. “You look more… human now,” he said, smiling a little.

“As opposed to what?”

“Gary Barlow,” said Tom. He looked dead serious, too.

“Right, well, thanks for the grooming tips,” Chris said, running his hands through his hair just to muss up Tom’s handiwork. “I’ll keep them in mind.”

“Not a problem.” Tom put the pomade aside, twisted a fingers in his curls. “So are we ready to go?”

\---

Chris hated big parties: they were too loud and he was almost always guaranteed to hate the music. He worried about the kind of people they would meet tonight, the crazy shit he knew was likely to go down. Tom was seventeen but looked like he was barely old enough to drink, and he was impressionable and incredibly stubborn and hungry for attention. Chris was only a few years older but felt the weight of responsibility on his shoulders. He was not letting Tom out of his sight if he could help it.

The party was in an upscale neighborhood. Sam’s friend, Ben, lived on the top floor of a three-storey walk up. His apartment was spacious and modern; all of his furniture matched. There were already a handful of people there when they arrived, some of them familiar faces. Sam disappeared to look for people he knew, leaving Chris and Tom alone to search of liquor.

Tom hadn’t smoked weed since this morning so his nervousness was noticeable. He kept glancing around and shifting from foot to foot, smiling at nothing in particular as he eavesdropped on the many conversations going on around them. He was trying so hard to look cool that Chris grabbed his hand and squeezed it then let it go before Tom said anything.

“This party wasn’t what I was expecting,” Tom said and accepted the cup of beer Chris pushed into his hands. He’d found the alcohol in the kitchen, always the center of activity in house parties.

Chris stared at the bottom of his cup, before letting out a rueful laugh. He finished his beer in one long swallow. “It could only get worse or better depending on your perspective.”

Tom frowned. “It sounds like you don’t want to be here.”

“I don’t,” Chris said. “I have better things to do.”

“ _No_ ,” Tom said, and laughed. “ _You_ just think you’re _better_ than everyone else here.”

“That’s not even remotely true,” Chris said, indignant. But the comment hit home, piercing him straight to the heart. Suddenly he felt less charitable towards Tom. He was just a kid. Seventeen, Chris thought. What the hell did he know?

Tom shrugged one shoulder and continued drinking his beer. He watched people and said nothing. When he asked for a refill Chris pointed him to the kitchen and left him to look for Sam.

\---

He lost Tom eventually. Chris didn’t let himself worry about it until an hour later when the party had moved on to the dancing stage: the lights were dimmed and the music was turned up and everyone started filling up the living room to writhe to terrible techno music.

House parties. Chris had been to enough of them to know that the next stage would be the hooking up stage. He better look for Tom before he found someone or someone found him. He was still feeling pretty crabby when he located Sam on the veranda, filming everything with a camcorder, his free hand holding a cigarette.

Sam nodded at him in greeting and Chris continued to stew in his bad mood. He imagined Tom finding another hapless fool to smoke weed and dance with, imagined him being felt up against the wall and kissed within an inch of his life. He felt a bizarre twinge of jealousy from the image his own mind had conjured. _He was Tom’s hapless fool._ Then he felt stupid: Chris never really had a hold on him, he realized, they weren’t exactly dating.

And then Chris heard a familiar bass line, a familiar rhythm and slapped Sam on the back.

“I know this song,” Chris said, trying to place where he’d heard it before. He frowned.

“Well so do I,” Sam snorted. “What’s the big deal?” He rubbed his shoulder where Chris had slapped him too hard.

“Hey you!”

Chris had barely finished his drink when Tom appeared out of nowhere, grabbing him by the waist, and crying out, “God! I love this song!”

And suddenly he remembered. It was the opening to New Order’s _Temptation _[[x](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Jpc70joK5Rw)] __ – one of Tom’s favourite songs. Tom had made him listen to it five times on repeat when they were getting baked in the pool house. Chris still had the CD in his discman. He kept forgetting to give it back.

Chris let himself be pulled to the crowd of dancers. There must’ve been something in the punch because he swayed a little on his feet and forgot why he was so upset in the first place.

“I love this song,” Tom repeated, but in a softer voice. He giggled, shyly swinging his hips to the music until the beat picked up and he threw his head back. Then he lifted his arms and swung his hips and Chris was gone. He found himself chanting the lyrics along with him, a sudden rush of adrenaline filling him as he watched Tom twist his hips _: oh, you've got green eyes, oh, you've got blue eyes, oh, you've got grey eyes_.

Tom’s glee was infectious. His eyes were bright, his skin was flushed and his expression was unusually open. He’d lost the blue plaid shirt. The grey one he wore underneath was tight and clung to his ribs sinfully. Chris could see his stiff nipples, the taut outline of his stomach. He was beautiful. Sweaty and happy and dancing without missing a beat. He moved his body against Chris’, grabbing Chris’ hips and urging him to dance.

“Come on!” he said. “Live a little!”

Chris thought _fuck it_ and hoped for the best.

Just then Sam appeared behind them with a video camera. “Nice moves Chris!” he laughed.

“Fuck off!” Chris said but neither of them was looking at him.

Chris tried to match Tom’s dancing but he clearly wasn’t good enough. He missed all his cues, shuffled instead of swayed. Another thing he hated about parties: there were always some pretty shitty dancers and then there were enthusiastic people like Tom.

“I’m not like you, Tom,” Chris said, laughing at himself. “I can’t dance.”

Tom smiled and wrapped Chris’ arms around his waist before hooking his own around Chris’ neck. “Well then just put your arms around me and follow my lead.”

They swayed, moving back and forth against each other, a poor semblance of dancing before Chris gripped Tom’s hip and inched his hand up the side of his shirt. The skin underneath was warm, soft with tiny hairs.

Tom was a little shorter than him so he could lean in and tuck his face against Chris’ throat. He trembled when Chris rubbed the pad of his thumb across his hip, when he hiked his shirt further up so he could stroke the knobs of Tom’s spine.

Chris kissed his temple. The skin was warm and salty and to his worry, becoming increasingly familiar.

“I don’t think this is dancing,” Chris whispered as Tom gently nipped his collarbone. He didn’t break skin but Chris grunted when his teeth made impact.

“The song’s almost over anyway,” Tom mumbled.

“What happened to your blue shirt?” Chris asked.

“I can’t remember.” Tom pulled away, lifting his head so their mouths were aligned but not touching. Tom didn’t meet his gaze, wasn’t even looking at Chris, so when Chris leaned down to kiss him, his eyes closed reflexively.

The kiss was short and sweet, just a passing brush of lips. Tom’s lips were dry, warm, a little chapped. Chris felt a shivery thrill run down his spine at the single point of contact. He tightened his grip around Tom, breathing his air, kissing him again till he gasped and finally returned the gesture, a clumsy half-start that had his tongue darting out to swipe at Chris’ bottom lip.

But he was the one to pull away first. “ _Chris_ ,” he said.

Shit. “I’m sorry,” Chris stammered. Shit shit shit shit. “I know I shouldn’t have— I’m sorry—”

“Chris,” said Tom again, cutting him off and gripping the front of his shirt. He pointed around them and for the first time Chris noticed that there were other people in the room.

The music had stopped and everybody was staring. Glasses clinked; somebody coughed. It felt like years before a new song started up again. Chris felt his neck and ears flare up in embarrassment. He clutched Tom harder, leaning their foreheads together before finally relinquishing his grip.

“I don’t think we should be here,” Tom murmured.

“Yeah?” said Chris. He laughed. It was one of the rare times they agreed on anything.

\---

They managed to find the guest room through trial and error. Two of the other rooms were already occupied but the one across the hall had been blessedly empty. Chris locked the door while Tom turned on the bedside lamp. The double bed was comfortable, covered in soft downy sheets. Tom sat at the center and bounced around a few times, folding his arms behind his head and crossing his legs at the ankle.

They could still hear music coming from the hall: the steady pulsating drum line like a heartbeat. Chris joined Tom on the bed, and as if pulled by an invisible force, leaned over to kiss him, his arms braced on either side of Tom’s head. This time Tom was more receptive now that they were alone. His whole body seemed to relax, his mouth opening under Chris’ so lush and giving. He tasted a little bit like fruit punch, sweet and tangy.

Chris never wanted to stop kissing him but at some point had to surface for air. The only sound he focused on was Tom’s rough breath. The covers shifted as Tom made himself more comfortable. Chris glanced at the clock on the wall: fifteen minutes to midnight. Chris kissed him again. Tom’s arms came around him slowly, circling his shoulders as he unwound his legs and brought them around Chris’ hips.

Chris held his face in both hands, watched as his eyes opened, watery and shiny under the light of the room. It was strange but he’d been wanting to kiss Tom all summer and now that he finally had, he felt nothing but peace. Desire drummed under his skin, yes, like a splinter he couldn’t quite reach, but it was only secondary to the wave of affection washing over his thoughts. He wanted to tell Tom he was beautiful but the hand he’d slipped under the back of Chris’ shirt distracted him as it scratched skin.

“Do you have a condom?” Tom breathed, nosing the side of his face. He was grinning softly, his eyelashes brushing Chris’ cheeks each time he blinked.

“What?”’ Chris said.

Tom huffed. “Do you have a condom?”

“Yes,” Chris said. He patted around for his wallet. He always brought a couple with him because you never know when you might need one. “I keep it like a rabbit’s foot, a sort of good luck charm—”

“I want you to fuck me,” Tom said, no prefacing the statement whatsoever. His eyes were clear with intent.

“What?” said Chris stupidly, tongue too thick in his mouth.

Tom rolled his eyes. “Chris, why do you keep making me repeat myself? Are you hard of hearing or something?” He shook his head in disbelief. “I want,” he said slowly, walking his fingers up Chris’ already half open shirt. His fingers skimmed Chris’ neck “You,” slid slowly up his jaw “To,” then pulled him forward so that their noses were touching. “Fuck me,” he finished with a kiss.

Chris slotted their mouths together, feeling Tom’s fingers clutch the back of his head, fingernails probably drawing blood. “I could do that,” he said when he breathed. “I could definitely _definitely_ do that.”

Tom smiled.

\---

Chris watched as Tom undressed. He sat on the edge of the bed, jiggling his leg in excitement, his hands shaking in his lap. He didn’t want to seem eager but it was hard to mask his growing arousal. This was finally happening. He wondered what he’d done to incur the good fortune. It must have been something good.

Tom shucked off his shirt and flung it across the room, then climbed into Chris’ lap and took his face in his hands. His neck from close up was a long slender curve and Chris’ necklace with the slim silver anchor hung from a leather cord around it.

They started kissing again, slow and unhurried, and they kept at it until Tom started to roll his hips, circling Chris’ shoulders and neck with his arms.

Chris rubbed Tom’s hipbones with his thumbs and unclasped the button of his jeans. They were tight, practically melded against his skin. It took some maneuvering before Chris had slid them off him completely. He had to roll Tom onto his back and kneel between his legs, tug the material off his legs like he was reeling fish. Tom was hard in his underwear – blue with racing stripes – that much was obvious, spotting the cotton with precome.

Chris pulled his shirt the rest of the way off and climbed on top of him, bracing himself against the bed. Tom cupped his jaw, startling them both with the sudden tenderness. Then he leaned up on his elbows and licked into Chris’ mouth and Chris surged forward, goaded by the action, tipping Tom’s head back so he could lick his neck.

Tom’s arms moved, running up Chris’ sides to link around his shoulders. Other parts of him moved too: his legs wrapped around Chris’ waist to pull him close; his fingers carded through Chris’ hair, his nails grazed the side of Chris’ neck, making Chris pant into his skin and shiver. His kisses tasted tangy like spiked punch; he smelled like a combination of pomade and shampoo. Even his sweat smelled good.

They moved together fluidly, kissing, breaking apart, kissing again. Chris was sweating even though the air conditioner in the room was on. Tom’s fingers worked furiously to untangle his underwear from his legs and Chris leaned back to watch him toe the damn thing off.

Despite the bravado, Chris could see Tom was as nervous as he was which made Chris wonder if he’d done this before. Tom slid onto his stomach, lifted his hips, presenting his arse to Chris. He widened his knees till they were open invitingly, giving Chris an unencumbered view of his hole.

“Put your tongue in there,” Tom said, voice trembling. He threw Chris a look over his shoulder, his eyes hungry, pleading. “Get me wet for you.”

Chris didn’t have to be told twice. He moved behind Tom, setting his hands on the globes of his arse, kneading them until he relaxed. Tom moaned, pushing up into his touch. Chris lowered his mouth to his hole, swirling his tongue across the furled skin. Tom’s entire body twitched, and he let out a choked noise when Chris spread him open with the pads of his thumbs. He could see it now: Tom’s hole clenching on nothing but air, how eager his body was.

Chris licked his finger, rubbed the pad of it across Tom’s pretty hole, then pushed, steadily, until Tom’s body shuddered and gave. He was still tight so Chris licked into him in lazy stripes, holding him open to let air pucker his flesh. He tasted earthy, like a sweet dirty boy, and he kept panting like a dog whenever Chris opened him up with his tongue.

“You’re amazing,” Chris hissed, voice muffled. He slicked him with his tongue, sloppy and wet, then kept him open for a beat too long to admire the sheen of spit coating his hole, glistening his thighs. He was beautiful.

“Finger me,” said Tom, need fogging his voice. “Finger me, come on.”

Chris rummaged through Tom’s clothes on the floor for the lube, uncapped it, noting it was almost running low. His heart stopped when he returned to the bed: Tom was holding himself open, ready it seemed, for the taking. Chris groaned and slapped his hands away, replaced them with his own, giving him one last good lick that made Tom shudder. His middle finger sank clean inside, coated deliberately with lube, enveloped immediately by the lush heat of Tom’s body. He watched Tom fuck himself on it a few times, his hole closing around the digit as Chris buried it to the knuckle.

“I like it when you finger me,” Tom confessed, moving his body back, canting his hips. “It feels better than when I do it myself.”

“Yeah?” Chris panted. “You want another one?”

Tom sank forward on his face, nodding. He breathed hard; Chris could feel the tiny reverberations under his skin. “Do it,” he said, and Chris slipped another finger to join the first one, scissoring him open, rubbing tight little circles, thrusting up. Tom squeaked, tightened his grip on the sheets, but welcomed the intrusion, his hole hungry for more. It was a greedy thing, just like he was, wanting to be filled over and over. Nothing was ever enough. They’d done this enough times for Chris to know just how much Tom enjoyed having his hole fingered, how much his body could take before it passed its tipping point.

“Fuck.” Tom shuddered, the hair on his arms and legs standing on end. “Keep going. Just—” The third finger and the tremors were stronger, his thighs trembling from the strain of keeping himself in position. He was leaking across the sheets, thick drops of precome. He was sweating too, a line of perspiration across his slender back.

“You want me to fuck you?” Chris asked, voice low. He almost didn’t recognize it himself, his voice roughened with lust. He wanted to fuck Tom so bad the desperation made him dizzy. He wasn’t usually a talker during sex, but he felt like he was out of his mind, barely in control of what was coming out of his mouth.

“Yeah, put it in me,” Tom gasped, nodding fervently. “I want your cock.”

“Are you sure—”

“Fuck me,” said Tom. “Now before I come.”

“How?” Chris asked, just because he could. He was still in his jeans, painfully hard through the material. He eased his fingers free and Tom winced, nearly collapsing on his front. Tom glanced at him from beneath a heavy-lidded gaze, eyes wet and pleading, lips swollen from kissing. That look on his face made Chris so fucking crazy. It did things to him that he couldn’t even articulate.

“How do you want it?” Chris asked again.

Tom moaned, rubbing his cock across the sheets and Chris didn’t even think about whose house they were in and whose bed. None of that seemed to matter when Tom was writhing his body, making noises that went straight to Chris’ dick.

“You wanna fuck me like this Chris?” Tom asked, turning the tables on him. “Or do you want me to ride your cock?”

Chris swallowed. He was in over his head. He wanted both; he wanted everything: Tom was a mess, a beautiful destructive mess and Chris coveted every inch of him.

In the end, he had Tom lay on his back, splay himself open so Chris could see his hungry hole, pink and beautiful and flushed from a fresh finger fucking.

Chris kissed him again, there, because he couldn’t quite help himself, tasting musk and the salt of his sweat. He kicked off his jeans, his underwear, slipped on the condom, pinching the tip and unrolling it over his hard cock. Chris squeezed himself a few times, watched as Tom flexed his toes while he kept himself spread wide. He was palming himself with one hand while the other kept his cheeks parted. Chris knelt between his open legs, poising the head of his cock against Tom’s opening.

Tom licked his lips, batting his eyes shut. “I’m ready,” he said, though his voice sounded suddenly small.

Chris nodded, braced himself on the bed, and pushed his hips forward. Tom’s body resisted upon impulse – Tom scrabbled against his chest – but Chris put a hand on his hip to calm him and he relaxed incrementally. He pressed a kiss to Tom’s forehead, flushed with sweat, hot despite the temperature in the room. He wasn’t even halfway in yet and Tom was already whimpering, eyes closed tight, fingernails welting Chris’ skin.

Chris wanted to push forward, fuck into the tight wet heat, but he willed himself to wait, to calm his beating heart. He could hear it pulse in his ears, a steady drumming between his eyes.

Tom tilted his head, met his mouth in an uncoordinated kiss. Their noses pressed together. “Don’t move just yet,” he whispered. “I need a minute.”

Then he hugged Chris and rested his forehead against Chris’ shoulder. Chris waited, trying his level best not to push inside like he wanted to. Finally, Tom kissed the side of his neck and told him to move. He inched forward again, keeping his pace steady, watching Tom’s face for signs of pain. His eyes were wet, but he kept nodding for Chris to continue until, with a groan, Chris pressed all the way in.

It felt so good Chris thought he would go cross-eyed. He leaned over Tom and took his face between his palms, kissing him from his forehead to his open mouth.

“Tell me how good it is,” Chris panted. “Tell me.”

Tom nodded his head, mute, breath hitching as Chris pulled out again only to bury himself fully forward. Chris took it as his cue to start thrusting, groaning each time his cock slide home. Tom was perfect; his body seemed molded for Chris. He would grunt, half in pain, half in what Chris could only hope meant something good, as Chris’ sped up his pace.

His head fell back, rolling across the pillows as Chris rocked into him in deep even thrusts. Tom started to tremble, reaching over between his legs to fondle his balls. “Fuck,” he said. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

“That good?”

“Go harder,” Tom hissed.

Chris obliged, pulling Tom’s legs apart till he was completely spread. Tom’s hole swallowed Chris’ cock, stretching to accommodate every thrust with hardly the resistance. Tom’s mouth fell open and his body arched up. Chris could watch him all day: stroking his own chest, loving every second of Chris’ fucking him in the arse, moaning for Chris’ cock. He seemed to enjoy a little violence, whimpering helplessly as Chris pistoned in and out. The mattress started to squeak. A blush crept up Tom’s chest, spreading to his neck, face, and ears.

Tom’s thighs were spread so wide they seemed to do the begging for him. Chris kept his grip tight on Tom’s ankles as he started fucking him hard and fast. He put more force into it once he noticed Tom keened at the particularly rough thrusts, angling his hips to aim for Tom’s prostate.

“Yes, _yes_ – oh god –”

Tom didn’t bother keeping himself quiet.

“You like it like that? Like getting fucked deep?” Chris twisted his hips, shoved forward, burying himself as deep as he could go, not moving until he heard Tom’s answering cry. He changed his pace to something slower, every thrust starting from the tip of his cock and ending at the root. Tom was wrecked, absolutely wrecked, his face and chest sweating, his knuckles white-tipped from gripping the headboard too hard.

They reached over simultaneously to pump Tom’s cock, so hard now, balls heavy with the need to come. Chris thrust once, twice, short and pounding, and Tom came on the third, letting out a sweet strangled noise. His hole clenched around Chris’ cock, gripping him like a glove.

Chris kissed him through the aftershocks of his orgasm, licking into his mouth, feeling him tremble, rocking his hips frantically till he came too seconds later, his face pushed into Tom’s neck, clutching him hard. Tom’s legs sank down on the bed afterwards and Chris pulled slowly out of him, sliding off the condom and tying one end, chucking it at a plastic bin and missing by a few feet.

Tom laughed, watching it hit the wall and descend the floor. He was so warm under Chris’, so pliant and beautiful that Chris had to kiss him again. Now that the rush of orgasm had left him, Chris didn’t know what to do. He felt vulnerable without any clothes on. Tom let him rest between his open knees and skimmed his fingers across the bumps of his spine.

Chris felt his eyes close. There it was again: the smell of his hair. “Was it good?” he mumbled sleepily.

He felt the soft tremors as Tom let out a chuckle. “Yeah, Chris,” he said, pushing Chris’ hair out of his eyes. “It was really really good.”

\---

Chris woke from his doze half an hour later. His bladder was protesting so he left the room to piss. There was a line to the bathroom so he had to wait longer than was healthy. There were a bunch of older guys he recognized as friends of Sam: students from the nearby university in artfully torn clothes and deliberately messy hair. He smiled at the girl in front of him checking her nails. Finally, the line was moving.

Chris pissed, bracing himself with one hand against the bathroom wall. Then he washed his hands, and checked his reflection in the mirror above the sink. Not too bad. His hair was post-sex and he had a scratch under one eye, a tiny mark Tom left there when he’d attempted to grab Chris’ face. He looked tired, eyes red-rimmed. But at least he looked nominally happy. He flushed and walked back to the guest room to join Tom in bed. He was still asleep when Chris lifted the covers, groaning in protest when Chris draped himself half on top of his back.

Chris kissed behind his ear, the silky soft skin, and slept.

Another half hour later he was woken by the creak of the door. Sam was shambling none too gracefully inside the room, looking this way and that, his eyes zeroing in on something on dresser. Chris blinked, still caught in a half-dream as Tom snored lightly under his armpit. He was so warm and he smelled so good. Sam bowed in repeatedly, ducking out. “I’m just getting my camera—” Then he left. Chris went back to sleep.

They joined the outside world two hours later at four AM, drawn out by hunger. By then most of the stragglers had gone home, leaving only a handful of Ben’s closest acquaintances congregated in the living room.

There was a bag of weed on the floor next to a huge bowl of chocolate-covered crisps. The Jack Daniels on the coffee table was empty. Red plastic cups joined the litter of cigarette butts on the carpet. Everyone was either passed out or too stoned to move. Sam was sprawled gloriously across the floor, missing a shirt, moaning something about a camera. Somebody had drawn a penis on his chest with a black marker.

Chris shook his head and walked over him to the kitchen while Tom scooped up a handful of crisps from the bowl.

Tom made a face. “These are stale,” he said. But he kept on eating anyway before picking up a rolled up spliff he found on the floor.

“Isn’t it too early for that?” Chris asked, but he wasn’t allowing his good mood to suffer. Tom just shrugged and smiled, tucking the spliff in the front pocket of his shirt. He was being good today, like he promised.

“We could steal all their wallets and they wouldn’t even know,” said Tom, crouching over Sam and poking him under the ribs, giggling.

“Yeah,” Chris said. “That’s a great idea.”

Tom laughed. There was hardly anything in the fridge that was remotely edible except vanilla ice cream, a tub of jello and half a watermelon. There was a carton of milk at the back. Chris sniffed it; it smelled all right enough.

Tom located a blender in the cupboard so they made milkshakes in Ben’s kitchen. The kitchen was, like everything else in Ben’s apartment, top of the line, with a handsome marble topped counter and the latest in culinary equipment. Tom spooned ice cream into his mouth while Chris plugged the blender. He found them glasses and poured the milky froth into each one, filling Tom’s glass to the brim.

“This tastes a bit odd. Are you sure the milk hasn’t gone bad already?” Tom asked, taking a baleful sniff.

Chris shrugged, chugged the rest of it down and left the glasses in the sink. When he turned around again, Tom had seated himself on the counter, an impish smile on his tired sleepy face. He swung his legs back and forth.

“Thanks,” he said as Chris slid between his spread knees. Tom’s legs came around Chris’ back, trapping him in place. Tom shifted on the counter, then flinched when Chris reached under his thighs to knead his arse. “Still a bit sore there,” he muttered, embarrassed.

Chris moved his hands to the tops of Tom’s thighs. “Sorry,” he said, hating himself already.

Tom flicked him in the ear. “Don’t be daft. Why are you sorry? It was good! I enjoyed it. I just, you know, haven’t ever done it before so it’s new and I just need some time to adjust.”

“You’ve never—” Chris said. He cleared his throat better to stop himself from gaping in shock. “But I mean of all people, I thought you’d at least—”

“What is that supposed to mean?” Now Tom was frowning.

Chris shook his head. “But you’re _you_!” he cried out. “You give _really_ excellent blowjobs.”

Tom stared at him and then blinked. “Thank you?”

“Really excellent,” Chris repeated, just for emphasis. His mind was reeling, struck with the sudden realization that maybe he’d been the first to —

Before he could continue that line of thought, however, they were interrupted by someone stumbling into the kitchen. Ben, Chris recognized, whom he’d only met once last night and had the subtlety of an elephant. He banged against the room like a drunk baby. Ginger, a pinched weasely face. Ben. Yep, Chris remembered him.

“Oh, hey, it’s you guys!” Ben beamed before throwing up in the sink. Chris felt a bit sick, listening to him. Once he’d finished retching, or appeared to be finished in any case, Ben turned on the tap and washed his face and hands. He groaned, loudly, like he was in pain. Then started to snore. Chris thought he’d fallen asleep right there on the sink when suddenly Ben sprang back to his feet.

He waved at them on his way out, giving them two thumbs up. “I love you guys! You guys are hot! Help yourself to whatever’s in the kitchen! I love you guys!”

Tom looked at Chris, confused. Chris shrugged and let him jump off the counter. Then Tom fisted Chris’ shirt, and crowded him against the kitchen island, inclining his head, standing a little bit on his toes. He looked coy but Chris knew he was anything but.

They kissed; Tom tasted like milkshake, and he laughed, ticklish, every time Chris swept his thumbs across his upper arms. Chris couldn’t stop kissing him if he tried; there was an addicting quality to Tom’s kisses, he tasted better every time and left Chris’ mouth filling up with thirst, like Chris was swallowing salt water. The feel of his body shuddering against Chris’ made his heart do all sort of crazy things. Then Tom moaned, his breath hitching, and sucked Chris’ bottom lip into his mouth.

It didn’t get any better than that.

\---

Chris knew there was no such thing as karma, but what followed next could’ve fooled him. He’d been having too good of a morning that he started to doubt whether or not he was dreaming, but he allowed himself a tiny spark of hope: maybe the cards had turned in his favor. Maybe this was going to be his year. But he was wrong.

\---

It wasn’t until three hours later that Chris’ whole world upended. It started innocently enough:

They helped Ben with cleanup and sent everybody home. A couple of people who couldn’t be pried off the floor remained, but otherwise they’d gotten rid of most of the hangers on. Sam was shuffling from room to room like a zombie, making sure there was no one they’d missed. He returned to the living room where Ben was slowly filling a garbage bag with plastic cups. Everybody moved like they were underwater: slow, sluggish, uncoordinated.

Ben sat down next to Tom and patted him on the knee. He seemed awfully friendly and Chris overheard him saying something about a video. Tom looked at Ben, his eyes wide, then shot Chris a panicked glance.

“You didn’t know?” Ben asked, loud enough for Chris to hear him.

Sam stopped in the act of vacuuming a crisp from under the coffee table. He hit his head on the glass and grunted.

“You filmed us having sex?”

Chris didn’t even know Tom was addressing him till Tom stomped over and shoved him against the mantel. “You fucking dick! I trusted you! And you filmed us _fucking_?”

“What?” Chris said stupidly. He looked to Sam and Ben for support. Ben looked just as confused as Chris was but it was Sam who wouldn’t meet Chris’ eyes.

Tom was having a panic attack. His breathing came shallow and fast, his eyes welling up with tears. He clutched his chest like it would at any moment split open and Chris was somehow afraid that it would. Tom was scaring him, his face was turning red and his hands were shaking.

Chris reached for his shoulder but Tom slapped it away and held up a hand. “Don’t you fucking touch me! Where’s the tape?”

“I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about! What tape?”

“I’m not an idiot, Chris,” Tom breathed, absolutely livid now. “Where is it?”

“I don’t –” Chris looked at Ben who shrugged in response. Tom threw his arms up in exasperation then shoved him again so hard Chris’ head hit the wall with a sound thump. Chris was glad he hadn’t been punched. The impact really hurt. Tom may weigh lesser than he did but he had some strength packed in that wiry frame.

Chris could only watch as Tom stormed out of the apartment, too confused to summon any real anger. He jumped as the door slammed.

Ben twiddled his thumbs in his lap. “Well,” he said. “That was something.”

Chris looked at Sam who slumped and moaned into his hands. He was shaking his head over and over.

“I fucked up, Chris,” he groaned. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

\---

Chris thought Tom had left for good but he found him leaning against the jeep outside, his arms crossed and his head bent, seemingly calmer now than he was before. He wasn’t shaking; that was a good sign. But still Chris was reluctant to touch him, afraid he’d flee like a frightened bird.

Sam had explained what happened shortly after Tom left: that he’d accidentally left the camcorder in the guest room, not knowing it was on, and that when he went to take it back that morning, sometime during all the frivolity the camcorder got passed around. Then some guy rewound the tape and found the footage of Chris and Tom fucking. It was interesting enough that people gathered round, watched, cheered, and placed bets on how long the two of them would go at it. The footage was only a few minutes long but word got around fast enough that everyone who’d been at the party had seen or heard of it in some capacity.

Now Sam wasn’t even sure who had the camcorder. He said he was going to make some calls before the footage made it to tape.

“So everyone and their mum has seen it then,” said Tom, his face blank. His eyes were glistening; he looked well and truly exhausted, all the fight drained out of him. All summer Chris had thought of him as alluring and impossible, but now he realized Tom was just a kid; half the time he didn’t think about the consequences of his actions.

Chris nodded. His hands and feet were cold with dread and guilt. “I’ll find the tape and take care of it,” he promised; he’d anything to get that crestfallen look off Tom’s face. It didn’t suit him.

Tom said nothing for a moment then scrubbed at his eyes. He moaned into his hands, his shoulders rising and falling like he was laughing or crying or both. “I have so much to lose, Chris. You don’t even know. If this gets out – I wouldn’t be able to get into Cambridge. Do you understand that? The disgrace – and my parents! What would they say?”

“You don’t think this affects me too?” Chris snapped. “You weren’t the only one in that video, you know.”

Tom swallowed. He rubbed his arm and Chris wanted to hug him to apologize for his outburst but he wasn’t sure if he were allowed to just yet. Tom looked his age: vulnerable, lost. His eyes were wet with a fresh wave of tears. “I’m sorry I pushed you,” he said softly, voice breaking.

“It’s all right,” Chris said. “I deserve it anyway.” He was supposed to be keeping an eye on Tom, making sure he stayed out of trouble. Not… whatever it was he was doing now: fucking around. He stepped forward, grazed his knuckles across Tom’s tear-stained cheek but Tom moved away before he made further contact, curling into himself and palming his face like Chris’ touch was a mistake he wanted to undo.

Tom pushed himself off the jeep. “Take me home,” he said tiredly. “I wanna go home, Chris.”

Chris sighed and nodded. “All right,” he said, pocketing his hand. “Let’s get you home.”


	4. four: all day and all of the night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _i'm not content to be with you in the daytime  
>  ~~girl~~ boy i want to be with you all of the time_   
>  **\--all day and all of the night, the kinks**

 

\---

Tom stayed away from him after that. Chris was grateful for the reprieve; he wasn’t in the mood to buy or smoke any more weed, and he couldn’t look Tom in the eye anyway, because even though he knew it wasn’t his fault that things had spun so deftly out of hand, a part of him still felt responsible. He was older than Tom and knew better; he shouldn’t have done half of the things he did, like fuck Tom in some stranger’s bed. Or fuck him at all.

Maybe this was bad karma. Maybe he was finally getting his comeuppance for all those times he thought of Tom as a brat or took money out of his parents’ swear jar when he was little.

It didn’t bother him as much as Tom did that a video of them having sex existed; what bothered him the most was the possibility that someone at some point would be jerking off to it, using the images of Chris and Tom to fuel their fantasies. And it didn’t feel right that other people besides Chris knew what Tom looked like when he was coming. It didn’t feel right at all.

Eventually, Sam found out who’d taken the camcorder home. Chris thought maybe things were finally looking up but he didn’t want to put too much faith in it lest his hopes were dashed.

Sam phoned him when Chris was just leaving for work. Chris almost missed the call and had to run back to the kitchen where the cordless was perched.

“Ben’s friend,” Sam explained. “Greg. The one with the goatee and dragoon tattoo. You met him a few times. He’ll be at the Lennoxx tonight. He’s a bartender there. I told him to bring the camcorder with him. It’s his. I forgot I had it on a loan.”

“Why can’t you just take the tape from him then?”

Sam sighed. “I wish it were that easy. Greg’s been really evasive, mate. Ever since the incident with the kiddie pool and the frying pan. Anyway, I have a shift tonight and he’s stopped returning my calls so I can’t come to see him. But he’ll be there. I swear to you. Greg’s a good guy. He doesn’t know what’s on the tape, or at least I hope he doesn’t. Chris? Chris?”

Chris hung up.

Chris wasn’t all that thrilled but still it was better than nothing. He drove to Tom’s in a much better mood than before and went straight to Tom’s room to deliver the semi-good news. Tom wasn’t at the pool; he’d stopped lounging about ever since they started getting baked together.

Chris knocked three times before he heard Tom tell him to come in.

Tom was sitting on the floor, folding his clothes, his suitcase opened next to him. He didn’t look up from his hands. _Radiohead_ was playing softly on the stereo and Tom was wearing a loose green tank top that hung off his slender shoulders. His arms were rail- thin but strong, tanned from hours spent lying under the sun but Chris could see his fair coloring creeping back, the schoolboy paleness returning and lending the sunburnt skin a pearly sheen. He still had Chris’ necklace, the silver anchor nestled at the dip of his throat.

“What are you doing?” Chris asked.

“Packing,” Tom said. He sounded annoyed. “My flight home leaves on Sunday.”

That was two days away. Chris had almost forgotten that Tom was only here on holiday. He wondered why he hadn’t even noticed summer was almost over.

“What do you want Chris?” Tom asked, sighing when Chris just stood there watching him.

Chris ran his hand across the dresser just so he had something to do; the surface hadn’t been cleaned as thoroughly. His fingers came away chalky with dust. “I know who has the tape,” he said.

Tom crossed his arms expectantly, prompting him to continue. “One of Sam’s friends has it. Sam told me where he’d be tonight. I’m going there later to pick it up and dispose of it.”

“I’m coming with you,” Tom decided.

“What?” Chris said. “No, you’re not.”

“I want to see the tape myself,” said Tom. The challenging glint in his eye was back. It was unnerving. Tom didn’t even move from the floor but Chris could feel himself shrink somehow in size. “I want to burn it. _Myself._ ”

Chris huffed. “Burn it? Don’t you think that’s a little extreme?” Then it hit him: “You don’t trust me to do it, do you?”

Tom shrugged. He stared at Chris for half a beat too long then went back to folding. The song on the stereo changed: something low and sinister, matching Chris’ mood. He recognized it immediately: _A Wolf At the Door_ [[x](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qg4q_ZUiTNA)]”. 

Chris wasn’t sure which he felt more keenly: the disappointment or the affront. He watched Tom’s hands smooth out the creases from the shirt in his lap; he watched him knit his brows in concentration and suck his bottom lip.

“The place opens a little earlier than most clubs,” Chris said, resigned. “We should probably leave by seven or eight.”

Tom looked up. “All right then,” he said breezily. “So I’ll see you at seven?”

“Seven,” Chris echoed. He clomped out the door, almost tripping on the carpet on his way out.

  
\---

 _The Lennoxx_ was dark and moody, and catered to a specific subset that matched its atmosphere to a t: most people who went there were college kids and brooding ‘artists’, guys in their mid thirties who had nowhere else to go on a Friday night. The street was clustered with smokers standing outside rival clubs. A long line led to the front door. The sign above the awning glowed blood orange.

Chris knew the bouncer, Eric, which was probably the only reason they were allowed inside. He’d met him at the gym a year ago; he’d surfed with him a few times. Eric had given Tom a look before raising both his eyebrows as if to say: _really Chris? Really?Isn’t he too young?_ But he let them through after giving Chris’ bicep a slap something which did not go unnoticed as Tom snorted and rolled his eyes. Chris refused to comment.

The change in temperature was immediate: the humidity hit them like a punch, second to the pulsating wall of sound. Chris felt his upper lip blooming with sweat. All around them the walls shook and the air hummed like something alive, a mist of sweat and noise.

Tom backed into him and Chris’ arms shot up to steady him. Tom’s back was warm against his chest. There was already a sheen of perspiration coating the side of his neck.

“How are we supposed to find him?” Tom yelled above the din.

“He’s supposed to be at the bar,” Chris said. His eyes scanned the throng of people clumped around them but the harsh strobe lighting made it difficult to concentrate. “All right, just stay close behind and don’t accept anything from strangers.”

Tom scoffed at him and gave him a little shove. “All right _dad_ ,” he said, rolling his eyes. “I’ll be good.”

Chris ignored the sarcasm. They wove their way to the crowded bar and Chris somehow managed to squeeze himself through a couple other people, waving a folded up dollar bill to flag the bartender with. It wasn’t Greg tonight, but some other guy with an ankh tattoo on his bicep and a pierced nostril. He looked sullen and moody.

“What can I get you?” he asked, clomping towards Chris.

“Actually, I’m looking for someone,” said Chris, “Greg? Goatee, tattoo of a dragon on his neck? He works here, I was told?”

The bartender looked bored already but replied evenly enough: “He just went to get something in the back. Are you gonna buy a drink or what?” He seemed agitated and kept glancing at the bill in Chris’ hand.

As if summoned by the siren call of liquor, before Chris could reply, Tom shimmied up next to him, emerging under his arm, flushed and excited. “I’ll have whatever he’s having!” he said brightly and pointed to the guy next to them who looked like he’d been nursing the same drink all night cruising for girls.

The bartender shrugged and went to fix him that: a syrupy red cocktail that looked both toxic and cheery all at once. He didn’t ask for ID but went instead to wedge a piece of strawberry on the rim of the glass. Tom seemed utterly delighted by this, and licked the fruit tentatively in a way Chris was sure was not supposed to have been erotic but was. Pleased, the bartender smiled softly but as soon as he turned back to Chris dropped the façade.

Chris gave the guy a flat look. “Does he look like he’s old enough to drink to you?”

The bartender didn’t miss a beat. “He’s cute, all right. Now are you buying or what?”

Chris stared him down but caved under the weight of his eyelined gaze. It seemed the world was against him tonight as it always was every night which shouldn’t have been surprising. He ordered a beer, boring but reliable, and brought it with him to the booth Tom managed to procure at the rear end of the room. It had a decent view of the bar and was set against the exposed brick wall. Chris wasn’t in the mood to drink – he needed to stay on his feet— but as soon as he took those first unsteady sips he felt marginally relaxed, warm in the stomach.

Tom chewed on the strawberry thoughtfully and brought his drink to his lips as he watched people on the dance floor scatter and weave. There were a couple of guys unloading equipment on the makeshift stage, a ten foot wide raised plywood platform, adjusting amps and performing sound check but for the most part they were ignored.

Tom started bobbing his head to the music, swaying a little as if bandied by invisible strings. He blushed when Chris caught him at it. “I know this song,” he said, sucking the strawberry’s red flesh into his mouth till only stalk and leaf remained.

“Is this your first time in a place like this?” Chris had to yell above the noise and lower his head to Tom’s which had him, in turn, leaning into Chris so they could hear each other better. The effect was a little claustrophobic: heads ducked together, thighs and knees touching, Tom’s elbow touching Chris’ ribs.

“A little bit, sort of,” Tom confessed, resting his weight lightly against Chris. He wore the same tank top from earlier tonight and the skin of his bare shoulder looked luminous under the club’s blinking lights.

When Chris gave him a look that sought for him to elaborate, Tom sighed like this conversation was paining him before wiping his fingers daintily on a paper napkin under the coaster. The bar’s logo was stamped in a corner. “I’ve been to something with a similar setting,” he said, shredding the paper napkin now, like he was nervous. “A friend of mine threw a birthday party once and it was on a yacht and there was a DJ and an open bar and at some point it got really crazy. There were people diving off the boat at the end of the night! ”

“I can’t even begin to imagine why anyone would think that was a good idea,” Chris said. “I hope nobody drowned.”

Tom laughed, genuine and surprised before lifting his glass in Chris’s direction in toast. He took another drink then swept his gaze back to the dance floor longingly where people moved like one massive undulating wave. He probably really did love to dance, Chris thought. He’d seen him enough times just swing his hips to any familiar beat.

“No one drowned though my friend David came really close,” Tom said. “I got so drunk I woke up with my underwear on my head and really bad sunburn because I passed out on the deck and didn’t get up by lunchtime the next day.”

“Do you ever think maybe you drink too much for a seventeen year old,” Chris asked; he hadn’t meant to say it out loud but between waiting for Greg to make an appearance at the bar and trying to block out the rhythmic thumping of house music, he’d polished off most of his beer. He wasn’t tipsy, not yet, but felt relaxed enough to be loose with his words. He felt a comfortable hum settle at the back of his mind.

“I enjoy it,” said Tom, chewing his bottom lip. He didn’t seem all that bothered that Chris was admonishing him.

“Well, isn’t there anything else you enjoy doing?”

Tom’s eyes lit up and he mimicked sucking cock, making a pumping motion with his fist and hollowing his cheeks.

Chris rolled his eyes. “Fuck off, mate.”

Tom was laughing hysterically. “You’ve never really asked me that question though. All summer and only now do you show any hint of interest.”

 _I’m always interested in what you say or do_ , Chris thought but what he said instead was, “You can dance, if you want to. I know you want to.”

Tom could hardly keep his eyes off the dance floor. “You mean – by myself?” He sounded incredulous.

“I’m sure there are loads of people out there who wouldn’t mind dancing with you,” Chris said.

“Yeah?” Tom leaned into Chris and grinned. It took a moment for the realization to sink in. Chris felt himself blush and he slurped handsome gulpfuls of his beer to cover it up. It was amazing what power a seventeen year old could wield over him. The blinding force of Tom’s smile could potentially thaw snowdrifts.

Finally, the music ebbed, chasing even the most fervent of dancers back to their tables. A college band had set themselves up on the platform, introducing themselves unironically as _The Glory Howls._

There were a few scattered claps, a boo, requests to turn the music back on, but all of that was swallowed up by the grating screech of the band’s acoustics. “This is for all the lovers out there,” said the guy on vocals, winking salaciously at the reluctantly gathering crowd. The music started up: slow, soothing, familiar. A song Chris recognized but couldn’t name.

“Oh god, it’s one of those cover bands isn’t it,” said Tom, covering his face in his hands. He shook his head, grimacing, but his eyes were shining and Chris could see him trying not to smile. Then he sat up, knocking back his drink, suddenly giddy as the beat started picking up. “Oh whatever, I love this song. Fuck it! Dance with me Chris! Come on!”

Chris immediately began protesting, casting a look at the bar. “Are you sure we should? Greg could be—”

“I trust you,” said Tom. Chris wasn’t sure what he meant by it till he remembered their earlier conversation, the purpose of tonight’s visit to the _Lennoxx_. Tom held out a hand to Chris, rolled his eyes when Chris didn’t take it right away.

Chris blinked at him before downing the rest of his pint. It him like a punch – exactly what he needed to shake himself out of his dumb stupor. He grabbed Tom’s hand, staggering a little. Live a little, he thought. Tom would always tell him that.

“Now let’s dance!” said Tom and yanked him to the floor where a good number of people have already gathered in interest.

The song was, as far as Chris was concerned, likely to be played at proms and more suited to slow dancing, but he couldn’t complain, not when Tom was slipping his arms around his shoulders and pressing himself closer, leading the way. His sweat smelled tangy interspersed with the scent of his shampoo. Chris felt like he was floating, the world around him smudged out of existence. The only thing anchoring him to the present was Tom whose fingers drifted lazily across the top of Chris’ spine. His eyes shone under the dim lighting. His sides where Chris’ hands rested were damp with sweat. He could be anything he wanted – spoiled, shallow, easily bored – and Chris realized he would still want him regardless. It was time to accept the inevitable.

Then the song picked up: less guitar and moaning, more keyboard. Tom unwound himself from Chris and lifted his arms in the air, started in on some complicated footwork. He twirled, lurched his hips, singing along with the rest of the crowd:

“And if a double-decker bus crashes in to us! To die by your side is such a heavenly way to die![[x](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OrgKtFVKTmI)]”

The crowd went wild, surging like a tide.

“The Smiths,” Chris said, astonished at having not recognized the song right away. And then he laughed, giving Tom a wide berth as he danced. “You’re amazing. You really are. I wish you could see yourself. You’re great.” He meant it too: Tom’s movements were synchronous to the beat. Chris couldn’t take his eyes off him.

“One of the things I’d like to believe I’m remotely good at,” Tom said over the vocals. “Is dancing.”

“Oh, yeah?” Chris caught him by the hips after a particularly enthusiastic spin. “I don’t know, I can think of a few other things.”

Tom slapped him on the chest. “Fuck you,” he said. But his eyes were smiling; he didn’t mean it. Chris watched as his smile softened his entire face.

“It’s been fun hasn’t it,” Tom said as the song drifted to a close.

“Yeah,” Chris agreed, jarred when someone knocked into him from behind. Startled, he jerked out of Tom’s embrace, glancing over his shoulder at the interloper who was quick to apologize and duck out of the way. But then his line of sight caught Greg behind the bar, the tender from earlier whispering something to him, pointing vaguely in Chris’ direction.

“Wait here,” Chris said.

Tom looked at him, confused. “Oh, sure,” he said sarcastically. “I’ll wait.”

Chris pushed his way to the bar, cutting through a group of coeds three deep along the bar. Greg recognized him from the few times they’d seen each other over the last six months though it took some time before Chris managed to convince him of his identity. Once that was settled, the purpose of his visit explained and slightly glossed over, Greg invited him into the storage room where he rummaged through his locker in search of the camcorder.

“Sam said you’d be here, but I didn’t think he meant this soon. You’re way too early mate, my shift hasn’t even officially started yet,” Greg said. His movements were slow and lazy, and Chris tried not to show impatience. He was stoned, it seemed like, and dawdled, making unnecessary small talk, telling Chris about the girl he was just talking to earlier, a singer in some kind of band. He spoke slowly, each word spaced with at least a two second interval like he was out of breath.

When he couldn’t find the camcorder where he said it would be, Chris started getting nervous. He didn’t want his visit to have all been for naught.

Letting Tom down tonight was not on the agenda, especially when he’d promised him he’d be destroying the evidence.

Chris was ready to count it as a lost cause when Greg started to remember something, herding Chris back to the bar so Greg could scan the crowd from his vantage point, hands cupped over his eyes like a bird watcher. “Yep,” he said, nodding. “That’s her.”

He pointed and Chris followed the direction of his finger. “She’s the one in the band,” Greg affirmed. “A roadie or something.”

“I came here for the tape,” Chris said.

“Well,” said Greg. “She has your tape. And my camcorder. Damn.”

“You couldn’t have told me twenty minutes ago?” Chris asked.

Greg just shrugged, scratching his goatee. “I forgot,” he said, like that was a reasonable excuse. Before Chris turned to leave, he said, “Hey, so what was in the tape anyway? Sam said it was something important but I didn’t even get to watch it. He said it was a _secret_. What was in it?”

Chris blushed, shaking his head, and thanked him for his time. He headed straight for the girl and thought the description was somewhat appropriate. She was young: Tom’s age maybe or a year older with thick bright make-up and big 80s hair. She was filming the band with the camcorder in question, wearing an artfully torn tie-dyed shirt and dancing to the songs. Her boots looked heavy and lethal. She had an assortment of button pins on her belt. Chris thought about approaching her, hesitated, but approached her anyway, tapping her shoulder lightly to get her attention.

“Yeah? Can I help you?”

“Yeah,” Chris said, “I just need to borrow your camera for a second?”

She looked at him like she was crazy so he rephrased himself. “I’m Chris, hi.” He thrust out a hand but she didn’t take it, still eyeing him like he was something that had just crawled out of a bog. Chris had never been at the receiving end of such thinly veiled disgust; it was unsettling but also unusually refreshing.

“Right, well,” said Chris rather awkwardly, “You probably know Greg who happens to own that camera you’re wielding. Anyway, I’m his friend and I have some important footage on there that I need to retrieve so if you don’t mind—”

She raised a thin plucked eyebrow “Fuck off.”

“Hey,” Chris said. “No need for hostility. I come in peace.”

“Hey Linda is this guy bothering you?”

Chris recognized that voice. He turned – and _yes_ – confirmed his suspicions. It was the bartender from earlier, sallow-skinned and pierced. His leather jacket looked like it was two sizes too small. He was probably on break, a cigarette was pinched between his lips.

Linda glared at him too which relieved Chris a little; her scorn wasn’t personal. She just hated everybody. “Fuck off Boyd,” Linda said, turning her attention back to the fracas on stage. The band was playing _Heaven Knows I’m Miserable Now_ which was a sentiment Chris echoed. Tonight was shaping up to be a fantastic disaster; maybe they shouldn’t have gone in the first plate.

“Mate,” said Boyd, standing between Linda and Chris. He was shorter than Chris but stockier, heavy in the middle. Chris could see where this was going. He’d met guys like Boyd before and they were perfect idiots. “ _Back off_.”

“Look,” Chris said. He raised a hand to explain himself but Boyd misinterpreted the gesture and punched him solidly in the stomach. Chris doubled over in pain as the air left his body. It took him a few seconds to respond but he acted on total impulse.

On a normal day he wouldn’t have returned Boyd’s punch – there were some things that were worth starting fights and some that were just outright stupid – but tonight he just couldn’t help himself. His arm reared back and his fist connected with Boyd’s smug unshaven face.

Boyd staggered back, falling onto a group of people who didn’t appreciate it. He was promptly shoved back, towards Chris, who barely had time to catch him. Boyd pushed himself off Chris and it began: the weirdest fight Chris had ever been in his life. He’d always hated confrontation and whenever he could avoided it at all costs. But tonight it seemed impossible. Boyd landed another solid punch, this time to Chris’ jaw, and someone yelled “fiiiight!” like they were all children in a playground.

A bunch of other guys joined them, flinging themselves into the circle the crowd had allotted for them. Chris saw stars, fell backwards, tripped, felt a heavy weight on his back that he shook off like a dog. He was under a pile of intoxicated college guys beating the shit out of each other for no reason and there was thick BO. He managed to barely crawl his way out of the brawl, shaking Boyd’s hand off his ankle but by then security had come in to pry them all off each other.

Boyd pointed at Chris. “He started it!” he whined like he was five. “He was harassing Linda.”

“What?” Chris said. “Excuse me? I only wanted the camcorder!”

In the end, it was Eric who escorted him out of the club. Chris tried to explain himself but Eric just shook his head and said, “I’m sorry man. But you have to go.” He said he believed Chris’ story more than Boyd’s but it would be in bad form to keep him in the club because he had an image to uphold.

“What the fuck? Seriously?” He kicked the wall in a burst of temper. Chris could feel his frustration seep out of his pores, a new headache curtaining down. He clenched his fists, huffing, jogged down the street, not sure where he was going, only that he needed to clear his head. Adrenaline coursed through him; he could feel his pulse just about everywhere in his body.

By the time he’d returned to the _Lennoxx_ fifteen minutes later, he felt calm enough to speak to Eric again without wanting to duck under his arm and search frantically for Tom. “My friend’s in there,” he said, sweating through his clothes. “The guy I was with? He’s seventeen; he’ not from around here and I need to drive him home. He’d be looking all over for me by now.” Chris wasn’t even sure if the last past were true. Tom was independent; he’d have probably ordered himself another drink and found someone to pay for it. Maybe he’d have already left.

Eric sighed, looking for a moment like he might waver. “I still can’t let you back inside, man,” he said. “Sorry, Chris. But I’ll keep an eye on him for you, all right?” He waved one of his bouncer friends over and gave him a description of Tom before nodding and turning back to Chris. “Pedro’ll look for him. He’s good with faces. You just hang tight, all right?”

“All right,” Chris conceded begrudgingly. “Okay.”

He sat on the curb, feeling sorry for himself and embarrassed, head between his knees. He wasn’t sure how much time had passed but when he looked up again, the line to the door had disappeared completely and his muscles felt stiff. It was almost morning; the skyline had lightened considerably and around him revelers were stumbling out of nearby clubs, heading home. He heard footsteps behind him, but didn’t look up.

“Hey,” said a voice. “Were you here all night?” Tom. Chris squeezed his eyes shut before glancing up at him. Tom had both hands stuffed inside the front pockets of Boyd’s jacket. He had a rueful smile on his face as he hunkered down next to Chris on the curb, one eyebrow raised.

“That was crazy in there, wasn’t it,” he commented. Chris didn’t know what to say to that; crazy was an understatement.

“You saw all that?”

“From a safe distance away,” Tom said. “I wanted to help but…” he trailed off. Chris wanted him to continue: _but what?_ There was also the issue of Boyd’s jacket. Chris wanted to ask but didn’t know how or where to begin. It was late enough that it was early again and he felt pretty lame sitting out there alone, waiting for Tom.

Tom retrieved a spliff from his pocket, held it up to Chris’ face. “Here,” he said, twirling it between his fingers. Chris chuckled in spite of the flaring pain in his cheek, in spite of his shame. “I saved this for you.”

“Thanks, but you didn’t have to.” Chris waved a hand. “I think I’ve smoked enough weed this entire summer to last me a lifetime.”

“Suit yourself,” Tom said then sat down next to him on the curb, wrapping his arms around his knees. Then he did something that was surprising, crushing the spliff in his palm before letting the crumbled remains drift between his fingers like dust. He wiped his hands together and gave Chris a befuddled look. “What?”

Chris huffed out a laugh. “You know that cost money right?” he said.

Tom shrugged. Then he bumped his knee into Chris’ playfully. “Guess what I have?”

“An STD from the toilets?”

“Har, har,” said Tom, rolling his eyes. “Well aside from this fake leather jacket I’ve somehow managed to borrow without permission, I got us something too!” He reached inside his jacket, pulled out Greg’s sleek camcorder with the flair of a magician performing a magic trick.

“How did you even –” said Chris.

“I have Boyd to thank for this,” Tom said. He juggled it in his hands before setting it down on the ground between them, the one thing they had in common, connecting them to each other.

“How?” Chris asked, still staring at him in awe.

“I gave him a blowjob,” Tom said, and when Chris’ face fell abruptly, he smacked him on the shoulder hard enough to leave a bruise. He needed to address all this aggression, especially when it was directly affecting Chris, Chris thought. “Oh _fuck you_! Your lack of faith disturbs me Christopher.”

“Jesus, stop hitting me!” Chris said, rubbing the spot Tom had more or less attacked. “I never know when you’re joking!”

“I suppose I just like to keep you entertained,” Tom said, smacking him again though with lesser force this time. Then he softened, hugging his knees again, bringing his chin down, staring at Chris sideways. “You really think I’d do that though? That I’d blow him?”

Chris shook his head. He didn’t even hesitate. “I don’t.”

Tom nodded, relieved by Chris’ answer. He smiled a little, tucking his face into his arms to hide it. “You suck by the way,” he mumbled into his knees. “That was the worst fight I’ve seen in my life and I’ve seen quite a good number of them.”

“I somehow doubt that,” Chris said. “Not with your kind of upbringing.”

“I go to boarding school. What do you think that’s like?” When Chris didn’t answer, Tom said, with a roll of his eyes and a derisive snort, “Prison.”

Chris burst out laughing. This conversation was already making him feel better despite the fatigue creeping up.

Tom smiled but it was quickly warped by a loud unapologetic yawn. He unspooled himself from the curb, tossing the camcorder at Chris who almost dropped it in surprise. “How long have you been out here? Hours?”

“I don’t know.” Chris didn’t even have a watch. The seat of his pants was damp with dew when he stood up, muscles protesting. He may have even fallen asleep earlier sitting down. Pathetic. “Probably,” he said, feeling sheepish, feeling his face heat up.

Tom nodded. “So drive me home then,” he said, hands in his front pockets, walking backwards so Chris had no choice but to follow. “I’m tired. You’re tired. Let’s go home.”

\---

The house was quiet when they returned. Mr Hiddleston’s Audi Locus was parked in the driveway behind the Bugatti rental, its sleek black finish like the wings of a nocturnal beetle. Chris had only meant to drop Tom off but had ended up following him back into the pool house where Tom arranged himself on the carpet amongst throw pillows and couch cushions. He sat with his legs crossed underneath him, hefting the camcorder from one hand to the other. He leaned back on his elbows and beckoned Chris over.

“Are you sure you we should?”

Tom shrugged. “Something tells me it’s going to be good.”

Despite the potential awkwardness the experience could bring, Chris sat down next to him to watch. Tom had doffed Boyd’s jacket and now it lay draped across the wicker chair which left his arms perfectly bare to Chris. Chris could feel the tiny hairs on his arms touch his, the friction raising his hackles, electric.

Tom turned on the camcorder, holding the screen up to eye-level, unfolding the small monitor. The footage was a mix of shaky clips: Ben’s party – people shotgunning drinks, making out in the kitchen, a long close up shot of a cat sat on the veranda, its luminous eyes unblinking – before finally Tom fast-forwarded to the incriminating stuff. They gasped simultaneously, shared an embarrassed self-conscious look. Then Tom rewound the footage to start from the beginning.

It was quite the experience to watch yourself in a video, and even stranger to watch yourself acting so uninhibitedly, knowing no one was watching. They were filmed at an angle that afforded a perfect view of the bed.

Chris remembered that night at Bens’ party, specifically what transpired in the guest room once the door had been closed. Every detail still fresh in his mind but replayed in a format that omitted certain embellishments – Tom’s kisses, and the way his body moved in answer to his, the blinding rush of his orgasm, what Tom’s teeth looked when he bared them in ecstasy and tipped his head back – all of that was caught on tape but without the hazy unreliability of memory.

The Chris on tape, for the most part, felt like he was reciting lines from a porno which made Chris blush and want to hurl the camera across the room. That wasn’t like him. He was cocksure and passionate, two qualities he hardly recognized in himself. But Tom, Tom looked the same: effortlessly beautiful. Hot. Like temptation and sin itself. Maybe this was why the video had been passed around at the party. Tom looked like he really was enjoying getting fucked.

The footage ended at Chris lifting Tom’s ankles, recorded over with footage from tonight’s show with The Glory Owls. Tom turned the camcorder off, glancing up at Chris silently, before ejecting the tape and padding shakily over to Boyd’s jacket where he’d retrieved a lighter.

Tom unspooled the tape till it sat in ribbons at his feet. “Would you do me the honor?” he asked Chris.

Chris caught the lighter. They watched the small flames lick up the tape. The smell of burning plastic filled the room and Tom stomped on the fire before it could grow, leaving a pile of melted plastic and ash on the tiled floor.

They sat there on the floor, not talking for a moment. Chris felt strangely peaceful and leaned back on his palms, staring at the ceiling before closing his eyes. He blinked them open when he felt Tom’s knuckles graze his cheek. “Let’s get you an ice pack for that bruise, mm?” He stood up, left, returned with a bag of frozen peas which he held up to Chris’ face. It numbed the dull ache spreading across Chris’ cheek; the pain was already receding though he wondered if that had anything to do with the way Tom was looking at him now.

Tom set the ice pack down and leaned into him. He rubbed their noses together and Chris slid his hand up Tom’s hip, inside his shirt, felt the dip there with his thumb and Tom’s answering shiver. He parted his lips even before Tom bridged the distance. Then Tom kissed him, Chris realized, for the first time of his own accord. Tom crawled into Chris’ lap, knotting his finger together behind Chris’ neck, still kissing him and only breaking away to breathe. His mouth was so soft, swollen, wet.

“Chris,” Tom whispered, nosing his ear. “Chris, do you want to fuck me?”

“Yes,” Chris said, squeezing him. “Yes, always.”

That seemed to be the answer Tom was looking for because he surged up to kiss him again, grinning in triumph. Chris was grateful he still had a condom left in his wallet. He knew those things weren’t just wishful thinking on his part and would in fact come in handy one day. It was little things like that that made life great.

They were too wound up to undress fully so they ended up keeping their shirts on. Tom shucked off his pants, lay on his back on the floor so Chris could prep him with two slick fingers. He kept himself open for Chris, receptive, his hands spreading his arse so Chris could finger his hole and test the resistance.

Chris was rewarded by the sight of Tom biting his lip and squirming, his cock a hard insistent curve twitching against his stomach. His hole stretched and clenched around Chris’ intrusive fingers, eagerly swallowing Chris to the knuckle. Chris wiped his hand across his shirt, then ducked his head between Tom’s spread thighs to kiss and lick his hole with broad swipes of the tongue. Tom gasped and shook as Chris kept him held open, spearing him with his tongue and moving his lips across the sensitive flesh.

Tom whined, canting his hips in circles, wanting, clearly, more of Chris’ mouth on him. He let out a noise of delight when Chris probed him with his tongue but then Chris abruptly moved away, chin banked in spit, and Tom protested in earnest.

Chris’ jaw felt sore from the exercise. He gave the inside of Tom’s thigh a little slap before leaning over to kiss him, share his rich heady taste. Tom licked Chris’ upper lip and wrapped his legs around his waist to rub his cock across Chris’ chest.

“You wanna ride me?” Chris grunted, rubbing his cheek against Tom’s, feeling the scratch of his own stubble raise goosebumps on Tom’s skin.

Tom nodded, eyes lust-blown and smirking. “Yeah,” he breathed. “On the couch.”

Chris rolled down his jeans and Tom helped him ease the condom on, squeezing his cock at the base and reaching even lower to knead Chris’ sac. Chris groaned and caught Tom’s wrist; he didn’t want to come just yet; he wanted Tom on his dick.

Tom climbed gingerly into his lap, where he maneuvered himself deftly, one hand clamped on Chris’ shoulder while the other guided the head of Chris’ cock to his hole. Slowly, he bore down, resting his weight on his hips, and Chris watched with bated breath as his cock disappeared inside that hungry hole of his, every inch stretching him wide. It was torture, waiting for Tom to adjust. When Chris was finally seated all the way inside, Tom moaned, linking his arms around Chris’ shoulders and pressing their foreheads together.

They didn’t move, not at first. Chris felt the perspiration beading on the small of Tom’s back, gluing his shirt to his skin.

“That night at Ben’s party,” Chris whispered as Tom started to move. “Was it your first time?”

“Yeah,” Tom panted, pace speeding up. “You took my virginity.”

“Fuck,” Chris groaned, throwing his head back. He couldn’t deny that it was hot, that he had something of Tom’s forever. He squeezed Tom’s hips and thrust up into him. Tom gasped, cock spitting out precome, and blushed, embarrassed. Then he lowered himself once more, his thighs trembling from the strain, and closed his eyes. His cock bobbed each time he moved. Up and down, pulling himself off Chris’ dick until only the head remained before burying Chris all the way to the root.

“Make yourself feel good,” Chris said, and lifted Tom’s shirt out of the way to mouth at his hard nipples, touch the heated skin with his tongue. “That’s it baby, ride my dick.”

Tom whimpered when Chris sucked a nipple into his mouth, rolling it between his tongue and teeth.

“Oh it feels so – _fuck_.” Even Tom looked surprised at how good it felt, his entire body shaking, a low sob rising unbidden from his lips. His hole clenched around Chris’ cock at one downward swivel of his hips, a sweet snug grip that had Chris growling, speeding up.

“Fuck me Chris, fuck me. Fuck, _yes_. _Oh._ Love riding your fat fucking cock.” Tom gasped and whimpered as Chris ground in once, twice, rubbing his cock hard against Tom’s prostate. He rolled his hips before every thrust. There was a desperation to Tom’s noises now; sweat beaded his eyebrow and he kept licking his lips. Chris pressed deeper, pulled him closer, trapping Tom’s dick between the friction of their bodies.

“ I'm gonna come,” Tom whined. “I'm gonna come.”

Chris lowered him onto his back, hardly breaking contact. They both groaned at the change in position. Now he had Tom underneath him, splayed open and wrecked, one leg hooked around the back of the couch as Chris held his ankle. His hole looked flushed and well-fucked. He was beautiful like this, with his shirt hiked up to his ribs, his nipples bitten and stiff.

“Chris.” Tom pressed a shaking hand over his eyes.

“Are you embarrassed?” Chris said,

“No,” Tom said in a small voice, laughing a little. “I just want to, to come. Make me come, fuck me. _Please_.” He let out a high pitched whine when Chris moved incrementally.

“You want my cock baby?” Chris didn’t even know where the words were coming from but he felt a rush of power when Tom nodded earnestly, blinking his eyes open and meeting Chris’ hungry gaze with his own. His eyes were wet, like his mouth. He slipped two fingers between his lips, ran them, wet, across his rim where their bodies were joined and Chris groaned, lurching up, tugging Tom even closer, his grip near-bruising on Tom’s ankle.

“Yes, yes, I want your cock,” Tom purred, running his nails down the hair on Chris’ left arm. “Are you gonna fuck me?”

Chris fucked into him hard, bringing their faces together. “Gonna fuck you so hard baby,” he growled. “That you’re going to come without ever touching your cock.”

Tom shivered, crying out, and Chris made good on his promise: slamming into him without pause until Chris could feel him open up completely. Tom stopped tensing against his thrusts and started squirming eagerly to meet them, writhing and whimpering and furrowing his eyebrows. His face was so expressive but his body even more so, rising up each time Chris rocked forward and slid his cock home. Chris’ balls slapped hard against Tom’s arse, and he leaned forward for a moment to bury himself to the hilt, not moving, breathing hard, enjoying the exquisite clench of Tom’s hole around him.

Tom moaned, shuddering. “So good, Chris. Ah, don’t stop, please—”

There was no rhythm after that next thrust; Chris just started fucking him harder and harder until he was sure he was going to collapse, relishing Tom’s soft cries broken only by his occasional gasps. He wanted to keep doing this forever, wanted to watch Tom curl his toes as he was fucked, his cock blood-red at the tip, begging to be touched. He looked like a dream come true: his skin glistening with a film of sweat, his nipples so pink and sweet. His eyes were parted to slits, feverish.

Tom came while Chris was still fucking him, moaning with mindless exhaustion and making a mess of himself on his chest. Chris still hadn’t come even when Tom pulsed around him with the aftershocks of his orgasm. Tom held out a hand to Chris’ chest, indicating for him to stop. Reluctantly, Chris let Tom’s ankle go, easing out of him with a grunt.

“I want you to come in my mouth,” Tom said, voice a low sleepy mumble. His eyes were still closed but when he opened them again, their intent was clear. He moved forward and dove into Chris’ lap, unrolling the condom so he could wrap his sweet slick mouth around the crown of Chris’ dick. He sighed and took Chris eagerly into his mouth. He was so good at this, hungrily moving his lips, sucking at the slit as he ran a loose fist around Chris’ shaft.

“Shit,” Chris hissed, wrapping his hand in Tom’s hair and yanking him forward. Tom let out a yelp of surprise but kept on sucking, closing his eyes as he cupped Chris’ balls, breathing harshly through his nose. Chris knew he wasn’t going to last, not like this and began to thrust into Tom’s mouth. Tom swallowed him down with a groan until Chris was coming like a rocket. His hips spasmed.

Tom pulled off, pumping him through his orgasm and keeping his lips parted to chase the stripes of come Chris painted across his face.

“Lap it up,” Chris groaned, voice a gravelly huff he didn’t recognize. Tom did just that, licking him from crown to balls, a pleased hum echoing inside his chest as he coated Chris’ softening dick with spit. Chris felt the energy leak out of him, but he still had enough presence of mind to pull Tom flush against him and kiss him a few more times. They were both breathing hard and panting and Tom tasted like come. He ran his fingers across the bones of Tom’s face and wiped the rest of the mess off.

Tom finally got rid of his shirt and tossed it over the side of the couch. He tucked himself against Chris’ chest, afterwards, and they lay spooned together on the wide couch, watching it turn to morning outside.

They had a good view of the pool which Chris thought looked strange empty. Chris threw a leg around Tom’s hip and felt Tom wriggle against him, like he was shaking him off, but he didn’t complain, not even when Chris wrapped an arm around his waist and kissed the sweat between his shoulder blades.

“I think I’m thirsty,” Tom said some time later when Chris thought he’d fallen asleep. “Fetch me a drink.” He pinched Chris’ arm to get him to do his bidding.

Chris was in such a good to even complain so he put his clothes back on and walked into the main house, which was quiet with early morning stillness. Tom’s parents were probably still asleep upstairs, and Marta wasn’t due till seven. Chris got Tom a coke from the fridge and on his way back to the pool house noticed a cluster of leaves floating across the pool’s surface. He laughed, crouched on the deck, shook his head. He probably needed to get rid of those; his last paycheck was coming in tomorrow.

When he returned with Tom’s drink, he found Tom sitting on the couch, still naked. He looked up when Chris entered, raised his eyebrows. “Why are you laughing?” he asked, confused.

Chris shook his head, popped the tab open and handed him his drink. He put his arm around Tom even though he was clothed and Tom was still naked and watched Tom drink and hand the can back. Tom shivered, moved to the other side of the couch, and unfurled his legs in Chris’ lap.

Chris set the can aside and stroked his knees. “So here we are, huh,” he said, after a while. “You all packed for tomorrow?”

Tom didn’t look too thrilled at being reminded and darted a glare in Chris’ direction. Chris was almost going to say he’d miss it. Probably he would. That lethal look of his could send any man running for the hills. “Yeah,” he said.

“Excited?”

“Not really,” Tom said with a grimace.

“Well,” Chris said, for a lack of a better thing to say. “This was one interesting summer, wasn’t it?”

He didn’t expect Tom to laugh, but that was what he did, kicking Chris gently in the ribs and then rolling his eyes. Tom flung an arm over his face, peeking at him from under it, his head pillowed on the armrest. He toed Chris in the stomach, with no real force behind it and Chris caught his ankle and kissed it and was rewarded by a light jab on the jaw.

But Tom’s face was soft, which made Chris’ stop for a second, and he giggled when Chris tickled the underside of his foot.

When Chris leaned over to kiss him, that softness melted away, replaced by something else that made Chris wonder. He felt Tom’s fingers in his hair, pulling him close. He felt Tom’s breath on his cheek before he kissed him.

“When you were dragged out of the club by that bouncer, I went looking for you,” Tom said. “But you weren’t outside so I thought you had left for good. I thought I’d try my luck with Boyd, ask him for a ride. He was such a creep though and he kept touching my arse so obviously that idea quickly went out the window. I managed to take his jacket and the camera when he went to piss. And also stole the tips from his wallet. Then I saw you outside sitting on the curb and realized how stupid I was. Of course you’d never leave me! You’re not daft enough to forget you still had to drive me home.”

“Thanks,” Chris said. “I think.”

Tom smiled again, running his nose across Chris’ lips. “I can’t wait for next year,” he whispered thoughtfully. “Will you still be my pool boy, pool boy?”

Will he? Chris shrugged, pretending to think of the question even though he knew in his heart of hearts what the answer was and always would be. He rested his chin on Tom’s chest and swept the pads of his fingers up Tom’s sides.

“I don’t really know,” he said as Tom shivered underneath him. “I’m hoping for some career advancement.”

Tom smacked him on the shoulder, body shaking as he started to laugh.

 

\---

Later:

“So how did you get so good at giving blowjobs anyway when you’ve never really done it with anyone before?” Chris asked, knelt on the floor between Tom’s spread legs.

Tom shrugged, twining his fingers into Chris’ hair. “Easy,” he said, smiling. “I practiced on carrots.”

  


  


  


  


  
end

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this fic has a soundtrack you can listen to on [8tracks](http://8tracks.com/savekeating/goodbye-courage-hello-sadness). the download link is available in the comments, but also you can download it straight from [mediafire](http://www.mediafire.com/download/ywk2g5g2rdb6dhf/goodbye_courage,_hello_sadness.zip). enjoy!
> 
>  **ETA** : and also don't forget to check out [thedreamcrystal](http://thedreamscrystal.tumblr.com)'s gifset inspired by this fic viewable right [here](http://thedreamscrystal.tumblr.com/post/94420355287/goodbye-courage-hello-sadness-by-rangerdanger)!  
> Follow him on [thedreamcrystal](http://thedreamscrystal.tumblr.com)/[hembear](http://hembear.tumblr.com); he makes such amazing hiddlesworth gifsets and photosets.


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